THE MANXMAN

A NOVEL

By Hall Caine

SECOND EDITION

APPLETON AND COMPANY - 1894

THE MANXMAN. 

PART I. BOYS TOGETHER. 

I. 

Old Deemster Christian of Ballawhaine was a hard man--hard on theoutside, at all events. They called him Iron Christian, and people said, "Don't turn that iron hand against you. " Yet his character was stampedwith nobleness as well as strength. He was not a man of icy nature, buthe loved to gather icicles about him. There was fire enough underneath, at which he warmed his old heart when alone, but he liked the air tobe congealed about his face. He was a man of a closed soul. One had towrench open the dark chamber where he kept his feelings; but the man whohad done that had uncovered his nakedness, and he cut him off for ever. That was how it happened with his son, the father of Philip. 

He had two sons; the elder was an impetuous creature, a fiery spirit, one of the masterful souls who want the restraint of the curb if theyare not to hurry headlong into the abyss. Old Deemster Christian hadcalled this boy Thomas Wilson, after the serene saint who had oncebeen Bishop of Man. He was intended, however, for the law, not forthe Church. The office of Deemster never has been and never can behereditary; yet the Christians of Ballawhaine had been Deemsters throughsix generations, and old Iron Christian expected that Thomas WilsonChristian would succeed him. But there was enough uncertainty about thesuccession to make merit of more value than precedent in the selection, and so the old man had brought up his son to the English bar, andafterwards called him to practise in the Manx one. The young fellow hadnot altogether rewarded his father's endeavours. During his residencein England, he had acquired certain modern doctrines which were highlyobnoxious to the old Deemster. New views on property, new ideasabout woman and marriage, new theories concerning religion (alwaysre-christened superstition), the usual barnacles of young vessels freshfrom unknown waters; but the old man was no shipwright in harbour whohas learnt the art of removing them without injury to the hull. TheDeemster knew these notions when he met with them in the Englishnewspapers. There was something awesome in their effect on hisstay-at-home imagination, as of vices confusing and difficult to truemen that walk steadily; but, above all, very far off, over the mountainsand across the sea, like distant cities of Sodom, only waiting forSodom's doom. And yet, lo! here they were in a twinkling, shunted andshot into his own house and his own stackyard. 

"I suppose now, " he said, with a knowing look, "you think Jack as goodas his master?"

"No, sir, " said his son gravely; "generally much better. "

Iron Christian altered his will. To his elder son he left only alife-interest in Ballawhaine. "That boy will be doing something, " hesaid, and thus he guarded against consequences. He could not help it; hewas ashamed, but he could not conquer his shame--the fiery old man beganto nurse a grievance against his son. 

The two sons of the Deemster were like the inside and outside of a bowl, and that bowl was the Deemster himself. If Thomas Wilson the elderhad his father's inside fire and softness, Peter, the younger, had hisfather's outside ice and iron. Peter was little and almost misshapen, with a pair of shoulders that seemed to be trying to meet over a hollowchest and limbs that splayed away into vacancy. And if Nature had beengrudging with him, his father was not more kind. He had been brought upto no profession, and his expectations were limited to a yearly chargeout of his brother's property. His talk was bitter, his voice cold, he laughed little, and had never been known to cry. He had many thingsagainst him. 

Besides these sons, Deemster Christian had a girl in his household, butto his own consciousness the fact was only a kind of peradventure. Shewas his niece, the child of his only brother, who had died in earlymanhood. Her name was Ann Charlotte de la Tremouille, called afterthe lady of Rushen, for the family of Christian had their share of theheroic that is in all men. She had fine eyes, a weak mouth, and greattimidity. Gentle airs floated always about her, and a sort of nervousbrightness twinkled over her, as of a glen with the sun flickeringthrough. Her mother died when she was a child of twelve, and in thehouse of her uncle and her cousins she had been brought up among men andboys. 

One day Peter drew the Deemster aside and told him (with expressionsof shame, interlarded with praises of his own acuteness) a story of hisbrother. It was about a girl. Her name was Mona Crellin; she lived onthe hill at Ballure House, half a mile south of Ramsey, and wasdaughter of a man called Billy Ballure, a retired sea-captain, andhail-fellow-well-met with all the jovial spirits of the town. 

There was much noise and outcry, and old Iron sent for his son. 

"What's this I hear?" he cried, looking him down. "A woman? So that'swhat your fine learning comes to, eh? Take care, sir! take care! No sonof mine shall disgrace himself. The day he does that he will be put tothe door. "

Thomas held himself in with a great effort. 

"Disgrace?" he said. "What disgrace, sir, if you please?"

"What disgrace, sir?" repeated the Deemster, mocking his son in amincing treble. Then he roared, "Behaving dishonourably to a poorgirl--that what's disgrace, sir! Isn't it enough? eh? eh?"

"More than enough, " said the young man. "But who is doing it? I'm not. "

"Then you're doing worse. _Did_ I say worse? Of course I said worse. Worse, sir, worse! Do you hear me? Worse! You are trapsing aroundBallure, and letting that poor girl take notions. I'll have no moreof it. Is this what I sent you to England for? Aren't you ashamed ofyourself? Keep your place, sir; keep your place. A poor girl's a poorgirl, and a Deemster's a Deemster. "

"Yes, sir, " said Thomas, suddenly firing up, "and a man's a man. As forthe shame, I need be ashamed of nothing that is not shameful; and thebest proof I can give you that I mean no dishonour by the girl is that Iintend to marry her. "

"What? You intend to--what? Did I hear----"

The old Deemster turned his good ear towards his son's face, and theyoung man repeated his threat. Never fear! No poor girl should be misledby him. He was above all foolish conventions. 

Old Iron Christian was dumbfounded. He gasped, he stared, he stammered, and then fell on his son with hot reproaches. 

"What? Your wife? Wife? That trollop!--that minx! that--and daughter ofthat sot, too, that old rip, that rowdy blatherskite--that----And myown son is to lift his hand to cut his throat! Yes, sir, cut histhroat----And I am to stand by! No, no! I say no, sir, no!"

The young man made some further protest, but it was lost in his father'sclamour. 

"You will, though? You will? Then your hat is your house, sir. Take toit--take to it!"

"No need to tell me twice, father. "

"Away then--away to your woman--your jade! God, keep my hands off him!"

The old man lifted his clenched fist, but his son had flung out of theroom. It was not the Deemster only who feared he might lay hands on hisown flesh and blood. 

"Stop! come back, you dog! Listen! I've not done yet. Stop! youhotheaded rascal, stop! Can't you hear a man out then? Come back! ThomasWilson, come back, sir! Thomas! Thomas! Tom! Where is he? Where's theboy?"

Old Iron Christian had made after his son bareheaded down to the road, shouting his name in a broken roar, but the young man was gone. Thenhe went back slowly, his grey hair playing in the wind. He was all ironoutside, but all father within. 

That day the Deemster altered his will a second time, and his elder sonwas disinherited. 

II. 

Peter succeeded in due course to the estate of Ballawhaine, but he wasnot a lawyer, and the line of the Deemsters Christian was broken. 

Meantime Thomas Wilson Christian had been married to Mona Crellinwithout delay. He loved her, but he had been afraid of her ignorance, afraid also (notwithstanding his principles) of the difference in theirsocial rank, and had half intended to give her up when his father'sreproaches had come to fire his anger and to spur his courage. Assoon as she became his wife he realised the price he had paid for her. Happiness could not come of such a beginning. He had broken every tiein making the one which brought him down. The rich disowned him, and thepoor lost respect for him. 

"It's positively indecent, " said one. "It's potatoes marrying herrings, "said another. It was little better than hunger marrying thirst. 

In the general downfall of his fame his profession failed him. He lostheart and ambition. His philosophy did not stand him in good stead, forit had no value in the market to which he brought it. Thus, day by day, he sank deeper into the ooze of a wrecked and wasted life. 

The wife did not turn out well. She was a fretful person, with a goodface, a bad shape, a vacant mind, and a great deal of vanity. Shehad liked her husband a little as a lover, but when she saw that hermarriage brought her nobody's envy, she fell into a long fit of thevapours. Eventually she made herself believe that she was an ill-usedperson. She never ceased to complain of her fate. Everybody treated heras if she had laid plans for her husband's ruin. 

The husband continued to love her, but little by little he grew todespise her also. When he made his first plunge, he had prided himselfon indulging an heroic impulse. He was not going to deliver a good womanto dishonour because she seemed to be an obstacle to his success. Butshe had never realised his sacrifice. She did not appear to understandthat he might have been a great man in the island, but that love andhonour had held him back. Her ignorance was pitiful, and he was ashamedof it. In earning the contempt of others he had not saved himself fromself-contempt. 

The old sailor died suddenly in a fit of drunkenness at a fair, andhusband and wife came into possession of his house and property atBallure. This did not improve the relations between them. The womanperceived that their positions were reversed. She was the bread-bringernow. One day, at a slight that her husband's people had put upon herin the street, she reminded him, in order to re-establish her woundedvanity, that but for her and hers he would not have so much as a roof tocover him. 

Yet the man continued to love her in spite of all. And she was notat first a degraded being. At times she was bright and cheerful, and, except in the worst spells of her vapours, she was a brisk and busywoman. The house was sweet and homely. There was only one thing to drivehim away from it, but that was the greatest thing of all. Neverthelessthey had their cheerful hours together. 

A child was born, a boy, and they called him Philip. He was thebeginning of the end between them; the iron stay that held them togetherand yet apart. The father remembered his misfortunes in the presenceof his son, and the mother was stung afresh by the recollection ofdisappointed hopes. The boy was the true heir of Ballawhaine, but theinheritance was lost to him by his father's fault and he had nothing. 

Philip grew to be a winsome lad. There was something sweet and amiableand big-hearted, and even almost great, in him. One day the fathersat in the garden by the mighty fuchsia-tree that grows on the lawn, watching his little fair-haired son play at marbles on the path with twobig lads whom he had enticed out of the road, and another more familiarplaymate--the little barefooted boy Peter, from the cottage by thewater-trough. At first Philip lost, and with grunts of satisfactionthe big ones promptly pocketed their gains. Then Philip won, and littlecurly Peter was stripped naked, and his lip began to fall. At thatPhilip paused, held his head aside, and considered, and then said quitebriskly, "Peter hadn't a fair chance that time--here, let's give himanother go. "

The father's throat swelled, and he went indoors to the mother and said, "I think--perhaps I'm to blame--but somehow I think our boy isn'tlike other boys. What do you say? Foolish? May be so, may be so! Nodifference? Well, no--no!"

But deep down in the secret place of his heart, Thomas Wilson Christian, broken man, uprooted tree, wrecked craft in the mud and slime, began tocherish a fond idea. The son would regain all that his father had lost!He had gifts, and he should be brought up to the law; a large nature, and he should be helped to develop it; a fine face which all mustlove, a sense of justice, and a great wealth of the power of radiatinghappiness. Deemster? Why not? Ballawhaine? Who could tell? The biggest, noblest, greatest of all Manxmen! God knows!

Only--only he must be taught to fly from his father's dangers. Love?Then let him love where he can also respect--but never outside his ownsphere. The island was too little for that. To love and to despise wasto suffer the torments of the damned. 

Nourishing these dreams, the poor man began to be tortured by everycaress the mother gave her son, and irritated by every word she spoke tohim. Her grammar was good enough for himself, and the exuberant caressesof her maudlin moods were even sometimes pleasant, but the boy must bedegraded by neither. 

The woman did not reach to these high thoughts, but she was not slow tointerpret the casual byplay in which they found expression. Her husbandwas taiching her son to dis-respeck her. She wouldn't have thought itof him--she wouldn't really. But it was always the way when aplain practical woman married on the quality. Imperence anddis-respeck--that's the capers! Imperence and disrespeck from theones that's doing nothing and behoulden to you for everything. It wasshocking! It was disthressing!

In such outbursts would her jealousy taunt him with his poverty, revilehim for his idleness, and square accounts with him for the manifestpreference of the boy. He could bear them with patience when they werealone, but in Philip's presence they were as gall and wormwood, andwhips and scorpions. 

"Go, my lad, go, " he would sometimes whimper, and hustle the boy out ofthe way. 

"No, " the woman would cry, "stop and see the man your father is. "

And the father would mutter, "He might see the woman his mother is aswell. "

But when she had pinned them together, and the boy had to hear her out, the man would drop his forehead on the table and break into groans andtears. Then the woman would change quite suddenly, and put her armsabout him and kiss him and weep over him. He could defend himself fromneither her insults nor her embraces. In spite of everything he lovedher. That was where the bitterness of the evil lay. But for the love hebore her, he might have got her off his back and been his own man oncemore. He would make peace with her and kiss her again, and they wouldboth kiss the boy, and be tender, and even cheerful. 

Philip was still a child, but he saw the relations of his parents, andin his own way he understood everything. He loved his father best, buthe did not hate his mother. She was nearly always affectionate, thoughoften jealous of the father's greater love and care for him, andsometimes irritable from that cause alone. But the frequent broilsbetween them were like blows that left scars on his body. He slept in acot in the same room, and he would cover up his head in the bedclothesat night with a feeling of fear and physical pain. 

A man cannot fight against himself for long. That deadly enemy iscertain to slay. When Philip was six years old his father lay sick ofhis last sickness. The wife had fallen into habits of intemperance bythis time, and stage by stage she had descended to the condition of anutterly degraded woman. There was something to excuse her. She had beendisappointed in the great stakes of life; she had earned disgracewhere she had looked for admiration. She was vain, and could not bearmisfortune; and she had no deep well of love from which to drink whenthe fount of her pride ran dry. If her husband had indulged her with alittle pity, everything might have gone along more easily. But he hadonly loved her and been ashamed. And now that he lay near to his death, the love began to ebb and the shame to deepen into dread. 

He slept little at night, and as often as he closed his eyes certainvoices of mocking and reproach seemed to be constantly humming in hisears. 

"Your son!" they would cry. "What is to become of him? Your dreams!Your great dreams! Deemster! Ballawhaine! God knows what! You areleaving the boy; who is to bring him up? His mother? Think of it!"

At last a ray of pale sunshine broke on the sleepless wrestler with thenight, and he became almost happy. "I'll speak to the boy, " he thought. "I will tell him my own history, concealing nothing. Yes, I will tellhim of my own father also, God rest him, the stern old man--severe, yetjust. "

An opportunity soon befell. It was late at night--very late. The womanwas sleeping off a bout of intemperance somewhere below; and the boy, with the innocence and ignorance of his years in all that the solemntime foreboded, was bustling about the room with mighty eagerness, because he knew that he ought to be in bed. 

"I'm staying up to intend on you, father, " said the boy. 

The father answered with a sigh. 

"Don't you asturb yourself, father. I'll intend on you. "

The father's sigh deepened to a moan. 

"If you want anything 'aticular, just call me; d'ye see, father?"

And away went the boy like a gleam of light. Presently he came back, leaping like the dawn. He was carrying, insecurely, a jug of poppy-headand camomile, which had been prescribed as a lotion. 

"Poppy heads, father! Poppy-heads is good, I can tell ye. "

"Why arn't you in bed, child?" said the father. "You must be tired. "

"No, I'm not tired, father. I was just feeling a bit of tired, and thenI took a smell of poppy-heads and away went the tiredness to Jericho. They _is_ good. "

The little white head was glinting off again when the father called itback. 

"Come here, my boy. " The child went up to the bedside, and the fatherran his fingers lovingly through the long fair hair. 

"Do you think, Philip, that twenty, thirty, forty years hence, when youare a man--aye, a big man, little one--do you think you will rememberwhat I shall say to you now?"

"Why, yes, father, if it's anything 'aticular, and if it isn't you canamind me of it, can't you, father?"

The father shook his head. "I shall not be here then, my boy. I am goingaway----"

"Going away, father? May I come too?"

"Ah! I wish you could, little one. Yes, truly I almost wish you could. "

"Then you'll let me go with you, father! Oh, I _am_ glad, father. " Andthe boy began to caper and dance, to go down on all fours, and leapabout the floor like a frog. 

The father fell back on his pillow with a heaving breast. Vain! vain!What was the use of speaking? The child's outlook was life; his own wasdeath; they had no common ground; they spoke different tongues. And, after all, how could he suffer the sweet innocence of the child's soulto look down into the stained and scarred chamber of his ruined heart?

"You don't understand me, Philip. I mean that I am going--to die. Yes, darling, and, only that I am leaving you behind, I should be glad to go. My life has been wasted, Philip. In the time to come, when men speakof your father, you will be ashamed. Perhaps you will not remember thenthat whatever he was he was a good father to you, for at least he lovedyou dearly. Well, I must needs bow to the will of God, but if I couldonly hope that you would live to restore my name when I am gone. . . . Philip, are you--don't cry, my darling. There, there, kiss me. We'llsay no more about it then. Perhaps it's not true, although father toldedyou? Well, perhaps not. And now undress and slip into bed before mothercomes. See, there's your night-dress at the foot of the crib. Wants somebuttons, does it? Never mind--in with you--that's a boy. "

Impossible, impossible! And perhaps unnecessary. Who should say? Youngas the child was, he might never forget what he had seen and heard. Someday it must have its meaning for him. Thus the father comfortedhimself. Those jangling quarrels which had often scorched his brain likeiron--the memory of their abject scenes came to him then, with a sort ofbleeding solace!

Meanwhile, with little catching sobs, which he struggled to repress, theboy lay down in his crib. When half-way gone towards the mists of theland of sleep, he started up suddenly, and called "Good night, father, "and his father answered him "Good night. "

Towards three o'clock the next morning there was great commotion in thehouse. The servant was scurrying up and downstairs, and the mistress, wringing her hands, was tramping to and fro in the sick-room, crying ina tone of astonishment, as if the thought had stolen upon her unawares, "Why, he's going! How didn't somebody tell me before?"

The eyes of the sinking man were on the crib. "Philip, " he faltered. They lifted the boy out of his bed, and brought him in his night-dressto his father's side; and the father twisted about and took him into hisarms, still half asleep and yawning. Then the mother, recovering fromthe stupidity of her surprise, broke into paroxysms of weeping, and fellover her husband's breast and kissed and kissed him. 

For once her kisses had no response. The man was dying miserably, for hewas thinking of her and of the boy. Sometimes he babbled over Philip ina soft, inarticulate gurgle; sometimes he looked up at his wife's facewith a stony stare, and then he clung the closer to the boy, as if hewould never let him go. The dark hour came, and still he held the boy inhis arms. They had to release the child at last from his father's dyinggrip. 

The dead of the night was gone by this time, and the day was at thepoint of dawn; the sparrows in the eaves were twittering, and the tide, which was at its lowest ebb, was heaving on the sand far out in the baywith the sound as of a rookery awakening. Philip remembered afterwardsthat his mother cried so much that he was afraid, and that when hehad been dressed she took him downstairs, where they all ate breakfasttogether, with the sun shining through the blinds. 

The mother did not live to overshadow her son's life. Sinking yet lowerin habits of intemperance, she stayed indoors from week-end to week-end, seated herself like a weeping willow by the fireside, and drank anddrank. Her excesses led to delusions. She saw ghosts perpetually. Toavoid such of them as haunted the death-room of her husband, she hada bed made up on a couch in the parlour, and one morning she was foundface downwards stretched out beside it on the floor. 

Then Philip's father's cousin, always called his Aunty Nan, came toBallure House to bring him up. His father had been her favourite cousin, and, in spite of all that had happened, he had been her lifelong heroalso. A deep and secret tenderness, too timid to be quite aware ofitself, had been lying in ambush in her heart through all the yearsof his miserable life with Mona. At the death of the old Deemster, herother cousin, Peter, had married and cast her off. But she was alwaysone of those woodland herbs which are said to give out their sweetestfragrance after they have been trodden on and crushed. Philip's fatherhad been her hero, her lost one and her love, and Philip was hisfather's son. 

III. 

Little curly Pete, with the broad, bare feet, the tousled black head, the jacket half way up his back like a waistcoat with sleeves, and thehole in his trousers where the tail of his shirt should have been, wasPeter Quilliam, and he was the natural son of Peter Christian. In thedays when that punctilious worthy set himself to observe the doings ofhis elder brother at Ballure, he found it convenient to make an outworkof the hedge in front of the thatched house that stood nearest. Twopersons lived in the cottage, father and daughter--Tom Quilliam, usuallycalled Black Tom, and Bridget Quilliam, getting the name of BridgetBlack Tom. 

The man was a short, gross creature, with an enormous head and a big, open mouth, showing broken teeth that were black with the juice oftobacco. The girl was by common judgment and report a gawk--a great, slow-eyed, comely-looking, comfortable, easy-going gawk. Black Tom wasa thatcher, and with his hair poking its way through the holes in hisstraw hat, he tramped the island in pursuit of his calling. This kepthim from home for days together, and in that fact Peter Christian, whileshadowing the morality of his brother, found his own opportunity. 

When the child was born, neither the thatcher nor his daughter attemptedto father it. Peter Christian paid twenty pounds to the one and eightyto the other in Manx pound-notes, the boys daubed their door to showthat the house was dishonoured, and that was the end of everything. 

The girl went through her "censures" silently, or with only one comment. She had borrowed the sheet in which she appeared in church from MissChristian of Ballawhaine, and when she took it back, the good soul ofthe sweet lady thought to improve the occasion. 

"I was wondering, Bridget, " she said gravely, "what you were thinking ofwhen you stood with Bella and Liza before the congregation last Sundaymorning"--two other Magda-lenes had done penance by Bridget's side. 

"'Deed, mistress, " said the girl, "I was thinkin' there wasn't a sheetat one of them to match mine for whiteness. I'd 'a been ashamed to beseen in the like of theirs. "

Bridget may have been a gawk, but she did two things which were notgawkish. Putting the eighty greasy notes into the foot of an oldstocking, she sewed them up in the ticking of her bed, and thenchristened her baby Peter. The money was for the child if she should notlive to rear him, and the name was her way of saying that a man's sonwas his son in spite of law or devil. 

After that she kept both herself and her child by day labour in thefields, weeding and sowing potatoes, and following at the tail of thereapers, for sixpence a day dry days, and fourpence all weathers. Shemight have badgered the heir of Ballawhaine, but she never did so. Thatperson came into his inheritance, got himself elected member for Ramseyin the House of Keys, married Nessy Taubman, daughter of the richbrewer, and became the father of another son. Such were the doingsin the big house down in the valley, while up in the thatched cottagebehind the water-trough, on potatoes and herrings and barley bonnag, lived Bridget and her little Pete. 

Pete's earliest recollections were of a boy who lived at the beautifulwhite house with the big fuchsia, by the turn of the road over thebridge that crossed the glen. This was Philip Christian, half a yearolder than himself, although several inches shorter, with long yellowhair and rosy cheeks, and dressed in a velvet suit of knickerbockers. Pete worshipped him in his simple way, hung about him, fetched andcarried for him, and looked up to him as a marvel of wisdom and goodnessand pluck. 

His first memory of Philip was of sleeping with him, snuggled up by hisside in the dark, hushed and still in a narrow bed with iron ends to it, and of leaping up in the morning and laughing. Philip's father--atall, white gentleman, who never laughed at all, and only smiledsometimes--had found him in the road in the evening waiting for hismother to come home from the fields, that he might light the fire in thecottage, and running about in the meantime to keep himself warm, and nottoo hungry. 

His second memory was of Philip guiding him round the drawing-room (overthick carpets, on which his bare feet made no noise), and showing himthe pictures on the walls, and telling him what they meant. One(an engraving of St. John, with a death's-head and a crucifix) was, according to this grim and veracious guide, a picture of a brigand whokilled his victims, and always skinned their skulls with a cross-handleddagger. After that his memories of Philip and himself were as two gleamsof sunshine which mingle and become one. 

Philip was a great reader of noble histories. He found them, frayedand tattered, at the bottom of a trunk that had tin corners and twopadlocks, and stood in the room looking towards the harbour where hismother's father, the old sailor, had slept. One of them was his specialfavourite, and he used to read it aloud to Pete. It told of the doingsof the Carrasdhoo men. They were a bold band of desperadoes, the terrorof all the island. Sometimes they worked in the fields at ploughing, andreaping, and stacking, the same as common practical men; and sometimesthey lived in houses, just like the house by the water-trough. But whenthe wind was rising in the nor-nor-west, and there was a taste of thebrine on your lips, they would be up, and say, "The sea's calling us--wemust be going. " Then they would live in rocky caves of the coast wherenobody could reach them, and there would be fires lit at night intar-barrels, and shouting, and singing, and carousing; and after thatthere would be ships' rudders, and figure heads, and masts coming upwith the tide, and sometimes dead bodies on the beach of sailors theyhad drowned--only foreign ones though--hundreds and tons of them. Butthat was long ago, the Carrasdhoo men were dead, and the glory of theirday was departed. 

One quiet evening, after an awesome reading of this brave history, Philip, sitting on his haunches at the gable, with Pete like anotherwhite frog beside him, said quite suddenly, "Hush! What's that?"

"I wonder, " said Pete. 

There was never a sound in the air above the rustle of a leaf, andPete's imagination could carry him no further. 

"Pete, " said Philip, with awful gravity, "the sea's calling me. "

"And me, " said Pete solemnly. 

Early that night the two lads were down at the most desolate part ofPort Mooar, in a cave under the scraggy black rocks of Gobny-Garvain, kindling a fire of gorse and turf inside the remains of a broken barrel. 

"See that tremendous sharp rock below low water?" said Philip. 

"Don't I, though?" said Pete. 

There was never a rock the size of a currycomb between them and the lineof the sky. 

"That's what we call a reef, " said Philip. "Wait a bit and you'll seethe ships go splitting on top of it like--like----"

"Like a tay-pot, " said Pete. 

"We'll save the women, though, " said Philip. "Shall we save the women, Pete? We always do. "

"Aw, yes, the women--and the boys, " said Pete thoughtfully. 

Philip had his doubts about the boys, but he would not quarrel. Itwas nearly dark, and growing very cold. The lads croodled down by thecrackling blaze, and tried to forget that they had forgotten tea-time. 

"We never has to mind a bit of hungry, " said Philip stoutly. 

"Never a ha'p'orth, " said Pete. 

"Only when the job's done we have hams and flitches and things forsupper. "

"Aw, yes, ateing and drinking to the full. "

"Rum, Pete, we always drinks rum. "

"We has to, " said Pete. 

"None of your tea, " said Philip. 

"Coorse not, none of your ould grannie's two-penny tay, " said Pete. 

It was quite dark by this time, and the tide was rising rapidly. There was not a star in the sky, and not a light on the sea exceptthe revolving light of the lightship far a Way. The boys crept closertogether and began to think of home. Philip remembered Aunty Nan. Whenhe had stolen away on hands and knees under the parlour window she hadbeen sewing at his new check night-shirt. A night-shirt for a Carrasdhooman had seemed to be ridiculous then; but where was Aunty Nannie now?Pete remembered his mother--she would be racing round the houses andcrying; and he had visions of Black Tom--he would be racing round alsoand swearing. 

"Shouldn't we sing something, Phil?" said Pete, with a gurgle in histhroat. 

"Sing!" said Philip, with as much scorn as he could summon, "and givethem warning we're watching for them! Well, you _are_ a pretty, Mr. Pete! But just you wait till the ships goes wrecking on the rocks--Imean the reefs--and the dead men's coming up like corks--hundreds andninety and dozens of them; my jove! yes, then you'll hear me singing. "

The darkness deepened, and the voice of the sea began to moan throughthe back of the cave, the gorse crackled no longer, and the turf burnedin a dull red glow. Night with its awfulness had come down, and the boyswere cut off from everything. 

"They don't seem to be coming--not yet, " said Philip, in a huskywhisper. 

"Maybe it's the same as fishing, " said Pete; "sometimes you catch andsometimes you don't. "

"That's it, " said Philip eagerly, "generally you don't--and then youboth haves to go home and come again, " he added nervously. 

But neither of the boys stirred. Outside the glow of the fire theblackness looked terrible. Pete nuzzled up to Philip's side, and, beinguntroubled by imaginative fears, soon began to feel drowsy. The sound ofhis measured breathing startled Philip with the terror of loneliness. 

"Honour bright, Mr. Pete, " he faltered, nudging the head on hisshoulder, and trying to keep his voice from shaking; "_you_ callyourself a second mate, and leaving all the work to me!"

The second mate was penitent, but in less than half a minute more he wascommitting the same offence again. "It isn't no use, " he said, "I'm thatsleepy you never seen. "

"Then let's both take the watch below i'stead, " said Philip, and theyproceeded to stretch themselves out by the fire together. 

"Just lave it to me, " said Pete; "I'll hear them if they come in thenight. I'll always does. I'm sleeping that light it's shocking. Why, sometimes I hear Black Tom when he comes home tipsy. I've done ittimes. "

"We'll have carpets to lie on to-morrow, not stones, " said Philip, wriggling on a rough one; "rolls of carpets--kidaminstrel ones. "

They settled themselves side by side as close to each other as theycould creep, and tried not to hear the surging and sighing of the sea. Then came a tremulous whimper:

"Pete!"

"What's that?"

"Don't you never say your prayers when you take the watch below?"

"Sometimes we does, when mother isn't too tired, and the ould man'smiddling drunk and quiet. "

"Then don't you like to then?"

"Aw, yes, though, I'm liking it scandalous. "

The wreckers agreed to say their prayers, and got up again and saidthem, knee to knee, with their two little faces to the fire, and thenstretched themselves out afresh. 

"Pete, where's your hand?"

"Here you are, Phil. "

In another minute, under the solemn darkness of the night, broken onlyby the smouldering fire, amid the thunderous quake of the cavern afterevery beat of the waves on the beach, the Carrasdhoo men were asleep. 

Sometime in the dark reaches before the dawn Pete leapt up with a start"What's that?" he cried, in a voice of fear. 

But Philip was still in the mists of sleep, and, feeling the cold, heonly whimpered, "Cover me up, Pete. "

"Phil!" cried Pete, in an affrighted whisper. 

"Cover me up, " drawled Philip. 

"I thought it was Black Tom, " said Pete. 

There was some confused bellowing outside the cave. 

"My goodness grayshers!" came in a terrible voice, "it's them, though, the pair of them! Impozzible! who says it's impozzible? It's themselvesI'm telling you, ma'm. Guy heng! The woman's mad, putting a scream outof herself like yonder. Safe? Coorse they're safe, bad luck to the youngwastrels! You're for putting up a prayer for your own one. Eh? Well, I'm for hommering mine. The dirts? Weaned only yesterday, and fetchinga dacent man out of his bed to find them. A fire at them, too! Well, itwas the fire that found them. Pull the boat up, boys. "

Philip was half awake by this time. "They've come, " he whispered. "Theships is come, they're on the reef. Oh, dear me! Best go and meet them. P'raps they won't kill us if--if we--Oh, dear me!"

Then the wreckers, hand in hand, quaking and whimpering, stepped out tothe mouth of the cave. At the next moment Philip found himself snatchedup into the arms of Aunty Nan, who kissed him and cried over him, andrammed a great chunk of sweet cake into his cheek. Pete was faringdifferently. Under the leathern belt of Black Tom, who was thrashing himfor both of them, he was howling like the sea in a storm. 

Thus the Carrasdhoo men came home by the light of early morning--Peteskipping before the belt and bellowing; and Philip holding a piece ofthe cake at his teeth to comfort him. 

IV. 

Philip left home for school at King William's by Castletown, and thenPete had a hard upbringing. His mother was tender enough, and there weregood souls like Aunty Nan to show pity to both of them. But life wentlike a springless bogey, nevertheless. Sin itself is often easier thansimpleness to pardon and condone. It takes a soft heart to feel tenderlytowards a soft head. 

Poor Pete's head seemed soft enough and to spare. No power and nopersuasion could teach him to read and write. He went to school at theold schoolhouse by the church in Maughold village. The schoolmaster wasa little man called John Thomas Corlett, pert and proud, with the sharpnose of a pike and the gait of a bantam. John Thomas was also a tailor. On a cowhouse door laid across two school forms he sat cross-leggedamong his cloth, his "maidens, " and his smoothing irons, with his boysand girls, class by class, in a big half circle round about him. 

The great little man had one standing ground of daily assault on thedusty jacket of poor Pete, and that was that the lad came late toschool. Every morning Pete's welcome from the tailor-schoolmaster was avolley of expletives, and a swipe of the cane across his shoulders. "Thecraythur! The dunce! The durt! I'm taiching him, and taiching him, andhe won't be taicht. "

The soul of the schoolmaster had just two human weaknesses. One of thesewas a weakness for drink, and as a little vessel he could not take muchwithout being full. Then he always taught the Church catechism and sworeat his boys in Manx. 

"Peter Quilliam, " he cried one day, "who brought you out of the land ofEgypt and the house of bondage?"

"'Deed, master, " said Pete, "I never was in no such places, for I neverhad the money nor the clothes for it, and that's how stories are gettingabout. "

The second of the schoolmaster's frailties was love of his daughter, achild of four, a cripple, whom he had lamed in her infancy, by lettingher fall as he tossed her in his arms while in drink. The constantterror of his mind was lest some further accident should befall her. Between class and class he would go to a window, from which, when he hadthrown up its lower sash, dim with the scratches of names, he could seeone end of his own white cottage, and the little pathway, between linesof gilvers, coming down from the porch. 

Pete had seen the little one hobbling along this path on her lame leg, and giggling with a heart of glee when she had eluded the eyes of hermother and escaped into the road. One day it chanced, after the heavyspring rains had swollen every watercourse, that he came upon the littlecurly poll, tumbling and tossing like a bell-buoy in a gale, down theflood of the river that runs to the sea at Port Mooar. Pete rescued thechild and took her home, and then, as if he had done nothing unusual, hewent on to school, dripping water from his legs at every step. 

When John Thomas saw him coming, in bare feet, triddle-traddle, triddle-traddle, up the school-house floor, his indignation at the boyfor being later than usual rose to fiery wrath for being drenched aswell. Waiting for no explanation, concluding that Pete had been fishingfor crabs among the stones of Port Lewaigue, he burst into a loud volleyof his accustomed expletives, and timed and punctuated them by a thwackof the cane between every word. 

"The waistrel! (thwack). The dirt! (thwack). I'm taiching him (thwack), and taiching him (thwack), and he won't be taicht!" (Thwack, thwack, thwack. )

Pete said never a word. Boiling his stinging shoulders under his jacket, and ramming his smarting hands, like wet eels, into his breeches'pockets, he took his place in silence at the bottom of the class. 

But a girl, a little dark thing in a red frock, stepped out from herplace beside the boy, shot up like a gleam to the schoolmaster as hereturned to his seat among the cloth and needles, dealt him a smart slapacross the face, and then burst into a lit of hysterical crying. Hername was Katherine Cregeen. She was the daughter of Cæsar the Cornaamiller, the founder of Ballajora Chapel, and a mighty man among theMethodists. 

Katherine went unpunished, but that was the end of Pete's schooling. His learning was not too heavy for a big lad's head to carry--a bitof reading if it was all in print, and no writing at all excepthalf-a-dozen capital letters. It was not a formidable equipment for thebattle of life, but Bridget would not hear of more. 

She herself, meanwhile, had annexed that character which was alwaysthe first and easiest to attach itself to a woman with a child butno visible father for it--the character of a witch. That name for hismother was Pete's earliest recollection of the high-road, and when theconsciousness of its meaning came to him, he did not rebel, but sullenlyacquiesced, for he had been born to it and knew nothing to the contrary. If the boys quarrelled with him at play, the first word was "yourmother's a butch. " Then he cried at the reproach, or perhaps fought likea vengeance at the insult, but he never dreamt of disbelieving the factor of loving his mother any the less. 

Bridget was accused of the evil eye. Cattle sickened in the fields, andwhen there was no proof that she had looked over the gate, the idea wassuggested that she crossed them as a hare. One day a neighbour's dogstarted a hare in a meadow where some cows were grazing. This wasobserved by a gang of boys playing at hockey in the road. Instantlythere was a shout and a whoop, and the boys with their sticks were infull chase after the yelping dog, crying, "The butch! The butch! It'sBridget Tom! Corlett's dogs are hunting Bridget Black Tom! Kill her, Laddie! Kill her, Sailor! Jump, dog, jump!"

One of the boys playing at hockey was Pete. When his play-fellows ranafter the dogs in their fanatic thirst, he ran too, but with a storm ofother feelings. Outstripping all of them, very close at the heels ofthe dogs, kicking some, striking others with the hockey-stick, while thetears poured down his cheeks, he cried at the top of his voice to thehare leaping in front, "Run, mammy, run! clink (dodge), mammy, clink!Aw, mammy, mammy, run faster, run for your life, run!"

The hare dodged aside, shot into a thicket, and escaped its pursuersjust as Corlett, the farmer, who had heard the outcry, came racing upwith a gun. Then Pete swept his coat-sleeve across his gleaming eyes andleapt off home. When he got there, he found his mother sitting on thebink by the door knitting quietly. He threw himself into her arms andstroked her cheek with his hand. 

"Oh, mammy, bogh, " he cried, "how well you run! If you never run in yourlife you run then. "

"Is the boy mad?" said Bridget. 

But Pete went on stroking her cheek and crying between sobs of joy, "Iheard Corlett shouting to the house for a gun and a fourpenny bit, andI thought I was never going to see mammy no more. But you did clink, mammy! You did, though!"

The next time Katherine Cregeen saw Peter Quilliam, he was sitting onthe ridge of rock at the mouth of Ballure Glen, playing doleful strainson a home-made whistle, and looking the picture of desolation anddespair. His mother was lying near to death. He had left Mrs. Cregeen, Kath-erine's mother, a good soul getting the name of Grannie, to watchand tend her while he came out to comfort his simple heart in this lonespot between the land and the sea. 

Katherine's eyes filled at sight of him, and when, without looking up orspeaking, he went on to play his crazy tunes, something took the girl bythe throat and she broke down utterly. 

"Never mind, Pete. No--I don't mean that--but don't cry, Pete. "

Pete was not crying at all, but only playing away on his whistle andgazing out to sea with a look of dumb vacancy. Katherine knelt besidehim, put her arms around his neck, and cried for both of them. 

Somebody hailed him from the hedge by the water-trough, and he rose, took off his cap, smoothed his hair with his hand, and walked towardsthe house without a word. 

Bridget was dying of pleurisy, brought on by a long day's work at hoeingturnips in a soaking rain. Dr. Mylechreest had poulticed her lungs withmustard and linseed, but all to no purpose. "It's feeling the sameas the sun on your back at harvest, " she murmured, yet the poulticesbrought no heat to her frozen chest. 

Cæsar Cregeen was at her side; John the Clerk, too, called John theWidow; Kelly, the rural postman, who went by the name of Kelly theThief; as well as Black Tom, her father. Cæsar was discoursing ofsinners and their latter end. John was remembering how at his electionto the clerkship he had rashly promised to bury the poor for nothing;Kelly was thinking he would be the first to carry the news to ChristianBalla-whaine; and Black Tom was varying the exercise of poundingrock-sugar for his bees with that of breaking his playful wit on thedying woman. 

"No use; I'm laving you; I'm going on my long journey, " said Bridget, while Granny used a shovel as a fan to relieve her gusty breathing. 

"Got anything in your pocket for the road, woman?" said the thatcher. 

"It's not houses of bricks and mortal I'm for calling at now, " sheanswered. 

"Dear heart! Put up a bit of a prayer, " whispered Grannie to herhusband; and Cæsar took a pinch of snuff out of his waistcoat pocket, and fell to "wrastling with the Lord. "

Bridget seemed to be comforted. "I see the jasper gates, " she panted, fixing her hazy eyes on the scraas under the thatch, from which brokenspiders' webs hung down like rats' tails. 

Then she called for Pete. She had something to give him. It was thestocking foot with the eighty greasy Manx banknotes which his father, Peter Christian, had paid her fifteen years before. Pete lit the candleand steadied it while Grannie cut the stocking from the wall side of thebed-ticking. 

Black Tom dropped the sugar-pounder and exposed his broken teeth in hissurprise at so much wealth; John the Widow blinked; and Kelly the Thiefpoked his head forward until the peak of his postman's cap fell on tothe bridge of his nose. 

A sea-fog lay over the land that morning, and when it lifted Bridget'ssoul went up as well. 

"Poor thing! Poor thing!" said Grannie. "The ways were cold forher--cold, cold!"

"A dacent lass, " said John the Clerk; "and oughtn't to be buried withthe common trash, seeing she's left money. "

"A hard-working woman, too, and on her feet for ever; but 'lowanced inher intellecks, for all, " said Kelly. 

And Cæsar cried, "A brand plucked from the burning! Lord, give me moreof the like at the judgment. "

When all was over, and tears both hot and cold were wiped away--Peteshed none of them--the neighbours who had stood with the lad in thechurchyard on Maughold Head returned to the cottage by the water-troughto decide what was to be done with his eighty good bank-notes. "It'sa fortune, " said one. "Let him put it with Mr. Dumbell, " said another. "Get the boy a trade first--he's a big lump now, sixteen for spring, "said a third. "A draper, eh?" said a fourth. "May I presume? My nephew, Bobbie Clucas, of Ramsey, now?" "A dacent man, very, " said John theWidow; "but if I'm not ambitious, there's my son-in-law, John Cowley. The lad's cut to a dot for a grocer, and what more nicer than havingyour own shop and your own name over the door, if you plaze--' PeterQuilliam, tay and sugar merchant!'--they're telling me John will beriding in his carriage and pair soon. "

"Chut! your grannie and your carriage and pairs, " shouted a raspingvoice at last. It was Black Tom. "Who says the fortune is belonging tothe lad at all? It's mine, and if there's law in the land I'll have it. "

Meanwhile, Pete, with the dull thud in his ears of earth falling on acoffin, had made his way down to Ballawhaine. He had never been therebefore, and he felt confused, but he did not tremble. Half-way up thecarriage-drive he passed a sandy-haired youth of his own age, a slimdandy who hummed a tune and looked at him carelessly over his shoulder. Pete knew him--he was Boss, the boys called him Dross, son and heir ofChristian Ballawhaine. 

At the big house Pete asked for the master. The English footman, inscarlet knee-breeches, left him to wait in the stone hall. The place wasvery quiet and rather cold, but all as clean as a gull's wing. There wasa dark table in the middle and a high-backed chair against the wall. Twooil pictures faced each other from opposite sides. One was of an old manwithout a beard, but with a high forehead, framed around with short greyhair. The other was of a woman with a tired look and a baby on her lap. Under this there was a little black picture that seemed to Pete to bethe likeness of a fancy tombstone. And the print on it, so far as Petecould spell it out, was that of a tombstone too, "In loving memory ofVerbena, beloved wife of Peter Chr--"

The Ballawhaine came crunching the sand on the hall-floor. He lookedold, and had now a pent-house of bristly eyebrows of a different colourfrom his hair. Pete had often seen him on the road riding by. 

"Well, my lad, what can I do for _you?_" he said. He spoke in a jerkyvoice, as if he thought to overawe the boy. 

Pete fumbled his stocking cap. "Mothers dead, " he answered vacantly. 

The Ballawhaine knew that already. Kelly the Thief had run hot-foot toinform him. He thought Pete had come to claim maintenance now that hismother was gone. 

"So she's been telling you the same old story?" he said briskly. •

At that Pete's face stiffened all at once. "She's been telling me thatyou're my father, sir. "

The Ballawhaine tried to laugh. "Indeed!" he replied; "it's a wisechild, now, that knows its own father. "

"I'm not rightly knowing what you mane, sir, " said Pete. 

Then the Ballawhaine fell to slandering the poor woman in her grave, declaring that she could not know who was the father of her child, andprotesting that no son of hers should ever see the colour of money ofhis. Saying this with a snarl, he brought down his right hand with athump on to the table. There was a big hairy mole near the joint of thefirst finger. 

"Aisy, sir, if you plaze, " said Pete; "she was telling me you gave herthis. "

He turned up the corner of his jersey, tugged out of his pocket, frombehind his flaps, the eighty Manx bank-notes, and held them in his righthand on the table. There was a mole at the joint of Pete's first fingeralso. 

The Ballawhaine saw it. He drew back his hand and slid it behind him. Then in another voice he said, "Well, my lad, isn't it enough? What areyou wanting with more?"

"I'm not wanting more, " said Pete; "I'm not wanting this. Take it back, "and he put down the roll of notes between them. 

The Ballawhaine sank into the chair, took a handkerchief out of histails with the hand that had been lurking there, and began to mop hisforehead. "Eh? How? What d'ye mean, boy?" he stammered. 

"I mane, " said Pete, "that if I kept that money there is people wouldsay my mother was a bad woman, and you bought her and paid her--I'mhearing the like at some of them. "

He took a step nearer. "And I mane, too, that you did wrong by my motherlong ago, and now that she's dead you're blackening her; and you're abad heart, and a low tongue, and if I was only a man, and didn't _know_you were my father, I'd break every bone in your skin. "

Then Pete twisted about and shouted into the dark part of the hall, "Come along, there, my ould cockatoo! It's time to be putting me to thedoor. "

The English footman in the scarlet breeches had been peeping from underthe stairs. 

That was Pete's first and last interview with his father. PeterChristian Ballawhaine was a terror in the Keys by this time, but he hadtrembled before his son like a whipped cur. 

V. 

Katherine Cregeen, Pete's champion at school, had been his companion athome as well. She was two years younger than Pete. Her hair was a blackas a gipsy's, and her face as brown as a berry. In summer she likedbest to wear a red frock without sleeves, no boots and no stockings, nocollar and no bonnet, not even a sun-bonnet. From constant exposureto the sun and rain her arms and legs were as ruddy as her cheeks, andcovered with a soft silken down. So often did you see her teeth that youwould have said she was always laughing. Her laugh was a little saucytrill given out with head aside and eyes aslant, like that of a squirrelwhen he is at a safe height above your head, and has a nut in his openjaws. 

Pete had seen her first at school, and there he had tried to draw theeyes of the maiden upon himself by methods known only to heroes, tosavages, and to boys. He had prowled around her in the playground withthe wild vigour of a young colt, tossing his head, swinging his arms, screwing his body, kicking up his legs, walking on his hands, lungingout at every lad that was twice as big as himself, and then bringinghimself down at length with a whoop and a crash on his hindmost partsjust in front of where she stood. For these tremendous efforts to showwhat a fellow he could be if he tried, he had won no applause from theboys, and Katherine herself had given no sign, though Pete had watchedher out of the corners of his eyes. But in other scenes the childrencame together. 

After Philip had gone to King William's, Pete and Katherine had becomebosom friends. Instead of going home after school to cool his heels inthe road until his mother came from the fields, he found it neighbourlyto go up to Ballajora and round by the network of paths to Cornaa. Thatwas a long detour, but Cæsar's mill stood there. It nestled down in thelow bed of the river that runs through the glen called Ballaglass. 

Song-birds built about it in the spring of the year, and Cæsar's littlehuman songster sang there always. 

When Pete went that way home, what times the girl had of it! Wading upthe river, clambering over the stones, playing female Blondin on thefallen tree-trunks that spanned the chasm, slipping, falling, holding onany way up (legs or arms) by the rotten branches below, then calling forPete's help in a voice between a laugh and a cry, flinging chips intothe foaming back-wash of the mill-wheel, and chasing them down stream, racing among the gorse, and then lying full length like a lamb, withouta thought of shame, while Pete took the thorns out of her bleeding feet. She was a wild duck in the glen where she lived, and Pete was a greatlumbering tame duck waddling behind her. 

But the glorious, happy, make-believe days too soon came to an end. Theswinging cane of the great John Thomas Corlett, and the rod of a yetmore relentless tyrant, darkened the sunshine of both the children. Petewas banished from school, and Catherine's father removed from Cornaa. 

When Cæsar had taken a wife, he had married Betsy, the daughter of theowner of the inn at Sulby. After that he had "got religion, " and he heldthat persons in the household of faith were not to drink, or to buy orto sell drink. But Grannie's father died and left his house, "The ManxFairy, " and his farm, Glenmooar, to her and her husband. About the sametime the miller at Sulby also died, and the best mill in the islandcried out for a tenant. Cæsar took the mill and the farm, and Grannietook the inn, being brought up to such profanities and no way bound byprinciple. From that time forward, Cæsar pinned all envious cavillerswith the text which says, "Not that which goeth into the mouth of a mandefileth him, but that which cometh out. "

Nevertheless, Cæsar's principles grew more and more puritanical year byyear. There were no half measures with Cæsar. Either a man was a savedsoul, or he was in the very belly of hell, though the pit might not haveshut its mouth on him. If a man was saved he knew it, and if he feltthe manifestations of the Spirit he could live without sin. His cardinalprinciples were three--instantaneous regeneration, assurance, and sinless perfection. He always said--he had said it a thousandtimes--that he was converted in Douglas marketplace, a piece off thewest door of ould St. Matthew's, at five-and-twenty minutes past six ona Sabbath evening in July, when he was two-and-twenty for harvest. 

While at Cornaa, Cæsar had been a "local" on the preachers' plan, aclass leader, and a chapel steward; but at Sulby he outgrew the Unionand set up a "body" of his own. He called them "The Christians. " a titlethat was at once a name, a challenge, and a protest. They worshippedin the long barn over Cæsar's mill, and held strong views on conduct. Asaved soul must not wear gold or costly apparel, or give way to softnessor bodily indulgence, or go to fairs for sake of sport, or appear inthe show-tents of play-actors, or sing songs, or read books, or takeany diversion that did not tend to the knowledge of God. As for carnaltransgression, if any were guilty of it, they were to be cut off fromthe body of believers, for the souls of the righteous must be delivered. 

"The religion that's going among the Primitives these days is justPopery, " said Cæsar. "Let's go back to the warm ould Methodism and putout the Romans. "

When Pete turned his face from Ballawhaine, he thought first of Cæsarand his mill. It would be more exact to say he thought of Katherineand Grannie. He was homeless as well as penniless. The cottage by thewater-trough was no longer possible to him, now that the mother was gonewho had stood between his threatened shoulders and Black Tom. Philipwas at home for a few weeks only in the year, and Ballure had lost itsattraction. So Pete made his way to Sulby, offered himself to Cæsar forservice at the mill, and was taken on straightway at eighteenpence aweek and his board. 

It was a curious household he entered into. First there was Cæsarhimself, in a moleskin waistcoat with sleeves open three buttons up, knee-breeches usually unlaced, stockings of undyed wool, and slipperswith the tongues hanging out--a grim soul, with whiskers like a hoopabout his face, and a shaven upper lip as heavy as a moustache, for, when religion like Cæsar's lays hold of a man, it takes him first bythe mouth. Then Grannie, a comfortable body in a cap, with an outlook onlife that was all motherhood, a simple, tender, peaceable soul, agreeingwith everybody and everything, and seeming to say nothing but "Poorthing! Poor thing!" and "Dear heart! Dear heart!" Then there wasNancy Cain, getting the name of Nancy Joe, the servant in name butthe mistress in fact, a niece of Grannie's, a bit of a Pagan, an earlyriser, a tireless worker, with a plain face, a rooted disbelief in allmen, a good heart, an ugly tongue, and a vixenish temper. Last of all, there was Katherine, now grown to be a great girl, with her gipsy hairdone up in a red ribbon and wearing a black pinafore bordered with whitebraid. 

Pete got on steadily at the mill. He began by lighting the kiln fire andcleaning out the pit-wheel, and then on to the opening the flood-gatesin the morning and regulating the action of the water-wheel according tothe work of the day. In two years' time he was a sound miller, safe totrust with rough stuff for cattle or fine flour for white loaf-bread. Cæsar trusted him. He would take evangelising journeys to Peel orDouglas and leave Pete in charge. 

That led to the end of the beginning. Pete could grind the farmers'corn, but he could not make their reckonings. He kept his counts inchalk on the back of the mill-house door, a down line for every stoneweight up to eight stones, and a line across for every hundredweight. Then, once a day, while the father was abroad, Katherine came over fromthe inn to the desk at the little window of the mill, and turned Pete'slines into ledger accounts. These financial councils were full ofdelicious discomfiture. Pete always enjoyed them--after they were over. 

"John Robert--Molleycarane--did you say Molleycarane, Pete? Oh, Mylecharane--Myle-c-h-a-r-a-i-n-e, Molleycarane; ten stones--did yousay ten? Oh, eight--e-i-g-h-t--no, eight; oatmeal, Pete? Oh, barley-male--meal, I mean--m-e-a-l. "

In the middle of the night Pete remembered all these entries. They werevery precious to his memory after Katherine had spoken them. They sangin his heart the same as song-birds then. They were like hymns and tunesand pieces of poetry. 

Cæsar returned home from a preaching tour with a great and suddenthought. He had been calling on strangers to flee from the wrath tocome, and yet there were those of his own house whose faces were notturned Zionwards. That evening he held an all-night prayer-meeting forthe conversion of Katherine and Pete. Through six long hours he calledon God in lusty tones, until his throat cracked and his foreheadstreamed. The young were thoughtless, they had the root of evil in them, they flew into frivolity from contrariness. Draw the harrow over theirsouls, plough the fallows of their hearts, grind the chaff out of theirhousehold, let not the sweet apple and the crabs grow on the same boughtogether, give them a Melliah, let not a sheaf be forgotten, grant themthe soul of this girl for a harvest-home, and of this boy for a laststook. 

Cæsar was dissatisfied with the results. He was used to groaning andtrembling and fainting fits. 

"Don't you feel the love?" he cried. "I do--here, under the watch-pocketof my waistcoat. "

Towards midnight Katherine began to fail. "Chain the devil, ", criedCæsar. "Once I was down in the pit with the devil myself, but now I'mup in the loft, seeing angels through the thatch. Can't you feel theworkings of the Spirit?"

As the clock was warning to strike two Katherine thought she could, and from that day forward she led the singing of the women in the choiramong "The Christians. "

Pete remained among the unregenerate; but nevertheless "The Christians"saw him constantly. He sat on the back form and kept his eyes fixed onthe "singing seat. " Observing his regularity, Cæsar laid a hand on hishead and told him the Spirit was working in his soul at last. SometimesPete thought it was, and that was when he shut his eyes and listened toKatherine's voice floating up, up, up, like an angel's, into the sky. But sometimes he knew it was not; and that was when he caught himselfin the middle of Cæsar's mightiest prayers crooking his neck past thepitching bald pate of Johnny Niplightly, the constable, that he mightget a glimpse of the top of Katherine's bonnet when her eyes were down. 

Pete fell into a melancholy, and once more took to music as a comforter. It was not a home-made whistle now, but a fiddle bought out of hiswages. On this he played in the cowhouse on winter evenings, and fromthe top of the midden outside in summer. When Cæsar heard of it hiswrath was fearful. What was a fiddler? He was a servant of corruption, holding a candle to disorderly walkers and happy sinners on their wayinto the devil's pinfold. And what for was fiddles? Fiddles was forplay-actors and theaytres. "And theaytres is _there_, " said Cæsar, indicating with his foot one flag on the kitchen-floor, "and hell flamesis _there_, " he added, rolling his toe over to the joint of the nextone. 

Grannie began to plead. What was a fiddle if you played the right tuneson it? Didn't they read in the ould Book of King David himself playingon harps and timbrels and such things? And what was harps but fiddles ina way of spak-ing? Then warn't they all looking to be playing harps inheaven? 'Deed, yes, though the Lord would have to be teaching her how toplay hers!

Cæsar was shaken. "Well, of course, certainly, " he said, "if there's apower in fiddling to bring souls out of bondage, and if there's going tobe fiddling and the like in Abraham's bosom--why, then, of course--well, why not?--let's have the lad's fiddle up at 'The Christians. '"

Nothing could have suited Pete so well. From that time forward he wentout no more at nights to the cowhouse, but stayed indoors to practisehymns with Katherine. Oh, the terrible rapture of those nightly"practices!" They brought people to the inn to hear them, and so Cæsarfound them good for profit both ways. 

There was something in Cæsar's definition, nevertheless. It was foundthat among the saints there were certain weaker brethren who did notwant a hymn to their ale. One of these was Johnny Niplightly, the ruralconstable, who was the complement of Katherine in the choir, beingleader of the singing among the men. He was a tall man with a long nose, which seemed to have a perpetual cold. Making his rounds one night, heturned in at "The Manx Fairy, " when Cæsar and Grannie were bothfrom home, and Nancy Joe was in charge, and Pete and Katherine werepractising a revival chorus. 

"Where's Cæsar, dough?" he snuffled. 

"At Peel, buying the stock, " snapped Nancy. 

"Dank de Lord! I mean--where's Grannie?"

"Nursing Mistress Quiggin. "

Niplightly eased the strap of his beaver, liberated his lips, took adeep draught of ale, and then turned to Pete, with apologetic smiles, and suggested a change in the music. 

At that Katherine leapt up as light as laughter. "A dance, " she cried, "a dance!"

"Good sakes alive?" said Nancy Joe. "Listen to the girl? Is it the moon, Kitty, or what is it that's doing on you?"

"Shut your eyes, Nancy, " said Katherine, "just for once, now won't you?"

"You can do what you like with me, with your coaxing and woaxing, " saidNancy. "Enjoy yourself to the full, girl, but don't make a noise abovethe singing of the kettle. "

Pete tuned his strings, and Katherine pinned up the tail of her skirt, and threw herself into position. 

At the sound of the livelier preludings there came thronging out of theroad into the parlour certain fellows of the baser sort, and behind themcame one who was not of that denomination--a fair young man with a fineface under an Alpine hat. Heeding nothing of this audience, the girlgave a little rakish toss of her head and called on Pete to strike up. 

Then Pete plunged into one of the profaner tunes which he had practisedin the days of the cowhouse, and off went Katherine with a whoop. Theboys stood back for her, bending down on their haunches as at a fight ofgamecocks, and encouraging her with shouts of applause. 

"Beautiful! Look at that now! Fine, though, fine! Clane done, aw, clane!Done to a dot! There's leaping for you, boys! Guy heng, did you ever seethe like? Hommer the floor, girl--higher a piece! higher, then! Whoop, did ye ever see such a nate pair of ankles?"

"Hould your dirty tongue, you gobmouthed omathaun!" cried Nancy Joe. Shehad tried to keep her eyes away, but could not. "My goodness grayshers!"she cried. "Did you ever see the like, though? Screwing like thewindmill on the schoolhouse! Well, well, Kitty, woman! Aw, Kirry, Kirry!Wherever did she get it, then? Goodsakes, the girl's twisting herselfinto knots!"

Pete was pulling away at the fiddle with both hands, like a bottomsawyer, his eyes dancing, his lips quivering, the whole soul of the ladlifted out of himself in an instant. 

"Hould on still, Kate, hould on, girl!" he shouted. "Ma-chree! Machree!The darling's dancing like a drumstick!"

"Faster!" cried Kate. "Faster!"

The red ribbon had fallen from her head, and the wavy black hair wastumbling about her face. She was holding up her skirt with one hand, and the other arm was akimbo at her waist. Guggling, chuckling, crowing, panting, boiling, and bubbling with the animal life which all her dayshad been suppressed, and famished and starved into moans and groans, shewas carried away by her own fire, gave herself up to it, and dancedon the flags of the kitchen which had served Cæsar for his practicaltypology, like a creature intoxicated with new breath. 

Meantime Cæsar himself, coming home in his chapel hat (his tall blackbeaver) from Peel, where he had been buying the year's stock of herringsat the boat's side, had overtaken, on the road, the venerable parson ofhis parish, Parson Quiggin of Lezayre. Drawing up the gig with a "Woa!"he had invited the old clergyman to a lift by his side on the gig'sseat, which was cushioned with a sack of hay. The parson had acceptedthe invitation, and with a preliminary "Aisy! Your legs a taste higher, sir, just to keep the pickle off your trousers, " a "Gee up!" and a touchof the whip, they were away together, with the light of the gig-lamp onthe hind-quarters of the mare, as they bobbed and screwed like amill-race under the splash-hoard. 

It was Cæsar's chance, and he took it. Having pinned one of the headsof the Church, he gave him his views on the Romans, and on the generalencroachment of Popery. The parson listened complacently. He was atolerant old soul, with a round face, expressive of perpetual happiness, though he was always blinking his little eyes and declaring, with thePreacher, that all earthly things were vain. Hence he was nicknamed OldVanity of Vanities. 

The gig had swept past Sulby Chapel when Cæsar began to ask for theparson's opinion of certain texts. 

"And may I presume, Pazon Quiggin, what d'ye think of the text--'Praisethe Lord. O my soul, and all that is within me praise His Holy Name?'"

"A very good text after meat, Mr. Cregeen, " said the parson, blinkinghis little eyes in the dark. 

It was Cæsar's favourite text, and his fire was kindled at the parson'spraise. "Man alive, " he cried, his hot breath tickling the parson'sneck, "I've praiched on that text, pazon, till it's wet me through tothe waistcoat. "

They were near to "The Manx Fairy" by this time. 

"And talking of praise, " said Cæsar, "I hear them there at theirpractices. Asking pardon now--it's proud I'd be, sir--perhaps you'd notbe thinking mane to come in and hear the way we do 'Crown Him!'"

"So the saints use the fiddle, " said the parson, as the gig drew up atthe porch of the inn. 

Half a minute afterwards the door of the parlour flew open with a bang, and Cæsar stood and glared on the threshold with the parson's ruddy facebehind him. There was a moment's silence. The uplifted toe of Katherinetrailed back to the ground, the fiddle of Pete slithered to his fartherside, and the smacking lips of Niplightly transfixed themselves agape. Then the voice of the parson was heard to say, "Vanity, vanity, all isvanity!" and suddenly Cæsar, still on the threshold, went down on hisknees to pray. 

Cæsar's prayer was only a short one. His mortified pride called forquicker solace. Rising to his feet with as much dignity as he couldcommand under the twinkling eyes of the parson, he stuttered, "Thecapers! Making a dacent house into a theaytre! Respectable person, too--one of the first that's going! So, " facing the spectators, "justhelp yourselves home the pack of you! As for these ones, " turning onKate, Pete, and the constable, "there'll be no more of your practices. I'll do without the music of three saints like you. In future I'll havethree sinners to raise my singing. These polices, too!" he said witha withering smile. (Niplightly was worming his way out at the back ofParson Quiggin. )

"Who began it?" shouted Cæsar, looking at Katherine. 

From the moment that Cæsar dropped on his knees at the door, Pete hadbeen well-nigh choked by an impulse to laugh aloud. But now he bit hislip and said, "I did!"

"Behould ye now, as imperent as a goat!" said Cæsar, working hiseyebrows vigorously. "You've mistaken your profession, boy. It's aplay-actorer they ought to be making of you. You're wasting your timewith a plain, respectable man like me. You must lave me. Away to theloft for your chiss, boy! And just give sheet, my lad, and don't lay totill you've fetched up at another lodgings. "

Pete, with his eye on the parson's face, could control himself nolonger, and he laughed so loud that the room rang. 

"Right's the word, ould Nebucannezzar, " he cried, and heaved up to hisfeet. "So long, Kitty, woman! S'long! We'll finish it another nightthough, and then the ould man himself will be houlding the candle. "

Outside in the road somebody touched him on the shoulder. It was theyoung man in the Alpine hat. 

"My gough! What? Phil!" cried Pete, and he laid hold of him with bothhands at once. 

"I've just finished at King William's and bought a boat, " said Philip, "and I came up to ask you to join me--congers and cods, you know--goodfun anyway. Are you willing?"

"Willing!" cried Pete. "Am I jumping for joy?"

And away they went down the road, swinging their legs together with alively step. 

"That's a nice girl, though--Kitty, Kate, what do you call her?" saidPhil. 

"Were you in then? So you saw her dancing?" said Pete eagerly. "Aw, yes, nice, " he said warmly, "nice uncommon, " he added absently, and then witha touch of sadness, "shocking nice!"

Presently they heard the pattering of light feet in the darkness behindthem, and a voice like a broken cry calling "Pete!"

It was Kate. She came up panting and catching her breath in hiccoughs, took Pete's face in both her hands, drew it down to her own face, kissedit on the mouth, and was gone again without a word. 

VI. 

Philip had not been a success at school; he had narrowly escaped beinga failure. During his earlier years he had shown industry without gifts;during his later years he had shown gifts without industry. His childishsaying became his by-word, and half in sport, half in earnest, with asmile on his lips, and a shuddering sense of fascination, he would saywhen the wind freshened, "The sea's calling me, I must be off. " Theblood of the old sea-dog, his mother's father, was strong in him. Idleness led to disaster, and disaster to some disgrace. He wasindifferent to both while at school, but shame found him out at home. 

"You'll be sixteen for spring, " said Auntie Nan, "and what would yourpoor father say if he were alive? He thought worlds of his boy, andalways said what a man he would be some day. "

That was the shaft that found Philip. The one passion that burned in hisheart like a fire was reverence for the name and the will of his deadfather. The big hopes of the broken man had sometimes come as a tortureto the boy when the blood of the old salt was rioting within him. Butnow they came as a spur. 

Philip went back to school and worked like a slave. There were onlythree terms left, and it was too late for high honours, but the boy didwonders. He came out well, and the masters were astonished. "After all, "they said, "there's no denying it, the boy Christian must have the giftof genius. There's nothing he might not do. "

If Phil had much of the blood of Captain Billy, Pete had much of theblood of Black Tom. After leaving the mill at Sulby, Pete made his homein the cabin of the smack. What he was to eat, and how he was to beclothed, and where he was to be lodged when the cold nights came, nevertroubled his mind for an instant. He had fine times with his partner. The terms of their partnership were simple. Phil took the fun and madePete take the fish. They were a pair of happy-go-lucky lads, and theylooked to the future with cheerful faces. 

There was one shadow over their content, and that was the ghost of agleam of sunshine. It made daylight between them, though, day by dayas they ran together like two that run a race. The prize was KatherineCregeen. Pete talked of her till Phil's heart awoke and trembled; butPhil hardly knew it was so, and Pete never once suspected it. Neitherconfessed to the other, and the shifts of both to hide the secret ofeach were boyish and beautiful. 

There is a river famous for trout that rises in Sulby glen and flowsinto Ramsey harbour. One of the little attempts of the two lads todeceive each other was to make believe that it was their duty to fishthis river with the rod, and so wander away singly up the banks of thestream until they came to "The Manx Fairy, " and then drop in casuallyto quench the thirst of so much angling. Towards the dusk of eveningPhilip, in a tall silk hat over a jacket and knickerbockers, would comeupon Pete by the Sulby bridge, washed, combed, and in a collar. Thenthere would be looks of great surprise on both sides. "What, Phil! Isit yourself, though? Just thought I'd see if the trouts were bitingto-night. Dear me, this is Sulby too! And bless my soul, 'The Fairy'again I Well, a drop of drink will do no harm. Shall we put a sighton them inside, eh?" After that prelude they would go into the housetogether. 

This little comedy was acted every night for weeks. It was acted onHollantide Eve six months after Pete had been turned out by Cæsar. Grannie was sitting by the glass partition, knitting at intervals, serving at the counter occasionally and scoring up on a black board thatwas a mass of chalk hieroglyphics. Cæsar himself in ponderous spectaclesand with a big book in his hands was sitting in the kitchen behind withhis back to the glass, so as to make the lamp of the business serve alsofor his studies. On a bench in the bar sat Black Tom, smoking, spitting, scraping his feet on the sanded floor, and looking like a giganticspider with enormous bald head. At his side was a thin man with a facepitted by smallpox, and a forehead covered with strange protuberances. This was Jonaique Jelly, barber, clock-mender, and Manx patriot. Thepostman was there, too, Kelly the Thief, a tiny creature with twinklingferret eyes, and a face that had a settled look of age, as of one bornold, being wrinkled in squares like the pointing of a cobble wall. 

At sight of Pete, Grannie made way, and he pushed through to thekitchen, where he seated himself in a seat in the fireplace just infront of the peat closet, and under the fish hanging to smoke. At sightof Phil she dropped her needles, smoothed her front hair, rose in spiteof protest, and wiped down a chair by the ingle. Cæsar eyed Pete insilence from between the top rim of his spectacles and the bottom edgeof the big book; but as Philip entered he lowered the book and welcomedhim. Nancy Joe was coming and going in her clogs like a rip-rap letloose between the dairy and a pot of potatoes in their jackets whichswung from the slowrie, the hook over the fire. A moment later Kate cameflitting through the half-lit kitchen, her black eyes dancing and hermouth rippling in smiles. She courtesied to Philip, grimaced at Pete, and disappeared. 

Then from the other side of the glass partition came the husky voiceof the postman, saying, "Well, I must be taking the road, gentlemen. There's Manx ones starting for Kim-berley by the early sailing to-morrowmorning. "

And then came the voice of the barber in a hoarse falsetto: "Kimberley!That's the place for good men I'm always saying. There's Billy the Redback home with a fortune. And ould Corlett--look at ould Corlett, theBallabeg! Five years away at the diggings, and left a house worth twentypounds per year per annum, not to spake of other hereditaments. "

After that the rasping voice of Black Tom, in a tone of irony andcontempt: "Of coorse, aw, yes, of coorse, there's goold on the cushagsthere, they're telling me. But I thought you were a man that's all forthe island, Mr. Jelly. "

"Lave me alone for that, " said the voice of the barber. "Manx-land forthe Manx-man--that's the text I'm houlding to. But what's it saying, 'Custom must be indulged with custom, or custom will die?' And withthese English scouring over it like puffins on the Calf, it isn't muchthat's left of the ould island but the name. The best of the Manx boysare going away foreign, same as these ones. "

"Well, I've letters for them to the packet-office anyway, " said thepostman. 

"Who are they, Mr. Kelly?" called Philip, through the doorway. 

"Some of the Quarks ones from Glen Rushen, sir, and the Gills boys fromCastletown over. Good-night all, goodnight!"

The door closed behind the postman, and Black Tom growled, "Slips oflads--I know them. "

"Smart though, smart uncommon, " said the barber; "that's the only sortthey're wanting out yonder. "

There was a contemptuous snort. "So? You'd better go to Kimberleyyourself, then. "

"Turn the clock back a piece and I'll start before you've time to curlyour hair, " said the barber. 

Black Tom was lifting his pot. "That's the one thing, " said he, "theAlmighty Himself" (gulp, gulp) "can't do. "

"Which?" tittered the barber. 

"Both, " said Black Tom, scratching his big head, as bald as a bladder. 

Cæsar flashed about with his face to the glass partition. "You're likethe rest of the infidels, sir, " said he, "only spaking to contradickyourself--calling God the Almighty, and telling in the same breath ofsomething He can't do. "

Meanwhile an encounter of another sort was going on at the ingle. Katehad re-appeared with a table fork which she used at intervals to testthe boiling of the potatoes. At each approach to the fire she passedclose to where Pete sat, never looking at Phil above the level of hisboots. And as often as she bent over the pot, Pete put his arm round herwaist, being so near and so tempting. For thus pestering her she beather foot like a goat, and screwed on a look of anger which broke down ina stifled laugh; but she always took care to come again to Pete's siderather than to Phil's, until at last the nudging and shoving ended in apinch and a little squeal, and a quick cry of "What's that?" from Cæsar. 

Kate vanished like a flash, the dim room began to frown again, and Philto draw his breath heavily, when the girl came back as suddenly bringingan apple and a length of string. Mounting a chair, she fixed one end ofthe string to the lath of the ceiling by the peck, the parchment oatcakepan, and the other end she tied to the stalk of the apple. 

"What's the jeel now?" said Pete. 

"Fancy! Don't you know? Not heard f'Hop-tu-naa'? It's Hollantide Eve, man, " said Kate. 

Then setting the string going like a pendulum, she stood back a pacewith hands clasped behind her, and snapped at the apple as it swung, sometimes catching it, sometimes missing it, sometimes marking it, sometimes biting it, her body bending and rising with its waggle, andnod, and bob, her mouth opening and closing, her white teeth gleaming, and her whole face bubbling over with delight. At every touch thespeed increased, and the laughter grew louder as the apple went faster. Everybody, except the miller, joined in the fun. Phil cried out on thegirl to look to her teeth, but Pete egged her on to test the strength ofthem. 

"Snap at it, Kitty!" cried Pete. "Aw, lost! Lost again! Ow! One in thecheek! No matter! Done!"

And Black Tom and Mr. Jelly stood up to watch through the doorway. "My goodness grayshers!" cried one. "What a mouthful!" said the other. "Share it, Kitty, woman; aw, share and share alike, you know. "

But then came the thunderous tones of Cæsar. "Drop it, drop it! Suchpractices is nothing but Popery. "

"Popery!" cried Black Tom from over the counter. "Chut! nonsense, man!The like of it was going before St. Patrick was born. "

Kate was puffing and panting and taking down the pendulum. 

"What does it mean then, Tom?" she said; "it's you for knowing things. "

"Mane? It manes fairies!"

"Fairies!"

Black Tom sat down with a complacent air, and his rasping voice camefrom the other side of the glass. "In the ould times gone by, girl, before Manxmen got too big for their breeches, they'd be off to bed byten o'clock on Hollantide Eve to lave room for the little people that'soutside to come in. And the big woman of the house would be filling thecrocks for the fairies to drink, and the big man himself would be rakingthe ashes so they might bake their cakes, and a girl, same as you, wouldbe going to bed backwards----"

"I know! I know!" cried Kate, near to the ceiling, and clapping herhands. "She eats a roasted apple, and goes to bed thirsty, and thendreams that somebody brings her a drink of water, and that's the onethat's to be her husband, eh?"

"You've got it, girl. "

Cæsar had been listening with his eyes turned sideways off his book, and now he cried, "Then drop it, I'm telling you. It's nothing butinstruments of Satan, and the ones that's telling it are just flying inthe face of faith from superstition and contrariety. It isn't dacent ina Christian public-house, and I'm for having no more of it. "

Grannie paused in her knitting, fixed her cap with one of her needlesand said, "Dear heart, father! Tom meant no harm. " Then, glancing atthe clock and rising, "But it's time to shut up the house, anyway. Goodnight, Tom! Good night all! Good night!"

Phil and Pete rose also. Pete went to the door and pretended to lookout, then came back to Kate's side and whispered, "Come, give them theslip--there's somebody outside that's waiting for you. "

"Let them wait, " said the girl, but she laughed, and Pete knew she wouldcome. Then he turned to Philip, "A word in your ear, Phil, " he said, andtook him by the arm and drew him out of the house and round to the yardof the stable. 

"Well, good night, Grannie, " said Mr. Jelly, going out behind them. "But if I were as young as your grandson there, Mr. Quilliam, I would bemaking a start for somewhere. "

"Grandson!" grunted Tom, heaving up, "I've got no grandson, or hewouldn't be laving me to smoke a dry pipe. But he's making an Almightyof this Phil Christian--that's it. "

After they were gone, Grannie began counting the till and saying, "Asfor fairies--one, two, three--it may be, as Cæsar says--four--five--thelike isn't in, but it's safer to be civil to them anyway. "

"Aw, yes, " said Nancy Joe, "a crock of fresh water and a few good wordsgoing to bed on Hollantide Eve does no harm at all, at all. "

Outside in the stable-yard the feet of Black Tom and Jonaique Jellywere heard going off on the road. The late moon was hanging low, red asan evening sun, over the hill to the south-east. Pete was puffing andblowing as if he had been running a race. "Quick, boy, quick!" he waswhispering, "Kate's coming. A word in your ear first. Will you do me aturn, Phil?"

"What is it?" said Philip. 

"Spake to the ould man for me while I spake to the girl!"

"What about?" said Philip. 

But Pete could hear, nothing except his own voice. "The ould angelherself, she's all right, but the ould man's hard. Spake for me, Phil;you've got the fine English tongue at you. "

"But what about?" Philip said again. 

"Say I may be a bit of a rip, but I'm not such a bad sort anyway. Makeme out a taste, Phil, and praise me up. Say I'll be as good as goold;yes, will I though. Tell him he has only to say yes, and I'll be thatstuddy and willing and hardworking and persevering you never seen. "

"But, Pete, Pete, Pete, whatever am I to say all this about?"

Pete's puffing and panting ceased. "What about? Why, about the girl forsure. "

"The girl!" said Philip. 

"What else?" said Pete. 

"Kate? Am I to speak for you to the father for Kate?"

Philip's voice seemed to come up from the bottom depths of his throat. 

"Are you thinking hard of the job, Phil?"

There was a moment's silence. The blood had rushed to Philip's face, which was full of strange matter, but the darkness concealed it. 

"I didn't say that, " he faltered. 

Pete mistook Philip's hesitation for a silent commentary on his ownunworthiness. "I know I'm only a sort of a waistrel, " he said, "but, Phil, the way I'm loving that girl it's shocking. I can never take restfor thinking of her. No, I'm not sleeping at night nor working reg'larin the day neither. Everything is telling of her, and everything isshouting her name. It's 'Kate' in the sea, and 'Kate' in the river, andthe trees and the gorse. 'Kate, ' 'Kate, ' 'Kate, ' it's Kate constant, andI can't stand much more of it. I'm loving the girl scandalous, that'sthe truth, Phil. "

Pete paused, but Philip gave no sign. 

"It's hard to praise me, that's sarten sure, " said Pete, "but I've knownher since she was a little small thing in pinafores, and I was a slipof a big boy, and went into trousers, and we played Blondin in the glentogether. "

Still Philip did not speak. He was gripping the stable-wall with histrembling fingers, and struggling for composure. Pete scraped thepaving-stones at his feet, and mumbled again in a voice that was nearto breaking. "Spake for me, Phil. It's you to do it. You've the way ofsaying things, and making them out to look something. It would be claneruined in a jiffy if I did it for myself. Spake for me, boy, now won'tyou, now?"

Still Philip was silent. He was doing his best to swallow a lump inhis throat. His heart had begun to know itself. In the light of Pete'sconfession he had read his own secret. To give the girl up was onething; it was another to plead for her for Pete. But Pete's troubletouched him. The lump at his throat went down, and the fingers on thewall slacked away. "I'll do it, " he said, only his voice was like a sob. 

Then he tried to go off hastily that he might hide the emotion that cameover him like a flood that had broken its dam. But Pete gripped him bythe shoulder, and peered into his face in the dark. "You will, though, "said Pete, with a little shout of joy; "then it's as good as done; Godbless you, old fellow. "

Philip began to roll about. "Tut, it's nothing, " he said, with a stoutheart, and then he laughed a laugh with a cry in it. He could have saidno more without breaking down; but just then a flash of light fell onthem from the house, and a hushed voice cried, "Pete!"

"It's herself, " whispered Pete. "She's coming! She's here!"

Philip turned, and saw Kate in the doorway of the dairy, the sweet youngfigure framed like a silhouette by the light behind. 

"I'm going!" said Philip, and he edged up to the house as the girlstepped out. 

Pete followed him a step or two in approaching Kate. "Whist, man!" hewhispered. "Tell the old geezer I'll be going to chapel reglar earlytides and late shifts, and Sunday-school constant. And, whist! tell himI'm larning myself to play on the harmonia. "

Then Philip slithered softly through the dairy door, and shut it afterhim, leaving Kate and Pete together. 

VII. 

The kitchen of "The Manx Fairy" was now savoury with the odour ofherrings roasting in their own brine, and musical with the crackling andfrizzling of the oil as it dropped into the fire. 

"It's a long way back to Ballure, Mrs. Cregeen, " said Philip, poppinghis head in at the door jamb. "May I stay to a bite of supper?"

"Aw, stay and welcome, " said Cæsar, putting down the big book, and NancyJoe said the same, dropping her high-pitched voice perceptibly, andGrannie said, also, "Right welcome, sir, if you'll not be thinking maneto take pot luck with us. Potatoes and herrings, Mr. Christian; just aManxman's supper. Lift the pot off the slowrie, Nancy. "

"Well, and isn't he a Manxman himself, mother?" said Cæsar. 

"Of course I am, Mr. Cregeen, " said Philip, laughing noisily. "If I'mnot, who should be, eh?'"

"And Manxman or no Manxman, what for should he turn up his nose atherrings same as these?" said Nancy Joe. She was dishing up a bowlful. "Where'll he get the like of them? Not in England over, I'll go bail. "

"Indeed, no, Nancy, " said Philip, still laughing needlessly. 

"And if they had them there, the poor, useless creatures would be lostto cook them. "

"'Deed, would they, Nancy, " said Grannie. She was rolling the potatoesinto a heap on to the bare table. "And we've much to be thankful for, with potatoes and herrings three times a day; but we shouldn't bethinking proud of our-selves for that. "

"Ask the gentleman to draw up, mother, " said Cæsar. 

"Draw up, sir, draw up. Here's your bowl of butter-milk. A knife andfork, Nancy. We're no people for knife and fork to a herring, sir. Anda plate for Mr. Christian, woman; a gentleman usually likes a plate. Nowate, sir, ate and welcome--but where's your friend, though?"

"Pete! oh! he's not far off. " Saying this, Philip interrupted hislaughter to distribute sage winks between Nancy Joe and Grannie. 

Cæsar looked around with a potato half peeled in his fingers. "And thegirl--where's Kate?" he asked. 

"She's not far off neither, " said Philip, still winking vigorously. "Butdon't trouble about them, Mr. Cregeen. They'll want no supper. They'refeeding on sweeter things than herrings even. " Saying this he swalloweda gulp with another laugh. 

Cæsar lifted his head with a pinch of his herring between finger andthumb half way to his open mouth. "Were you spaking, sir?" he said. 

At that Philip laughed immoderately. It was a relief to drown withlaughter the riot going on within. 

"Aw, dear, what's agate of the boy?" thought Grannie. 

"Is it a dog bite that's working on him?" thought Nancy. 

"Speaking!" cried Philip, "of course I'm speaking. I've come in todo it, Mr. Cregeen--I've come in to speak for Pete. He's fond of yourdaughter, Cæsar, and wants your good-will to marry her. "

"Lord-a-massy!" cried Nancy Joe. 

"Dear heart alive!" muttered Grannie. 

"Peter Quilliam!" said Cæsar, "did you say Peter?"

"I did, Mr. Cregeen, Peter Quilliam, " said Philip stoutly, "my friendPete, a rough fellow, perhaps, and without much education, but thebest-hearted lad in the island. Come now, Cæsar, say the word, sir, andmake the young people happy. "

He almost foundered over that last word, but Cæsar kept him up with asearching look. 

"Why, I picked him out of the streets, as you might say, " said Cæsar. 

"So you did, Mr. Cregeen, so you did. I always thought you were adiscerning man, Cæsar. What do you say, Grannie? It's Cæsar for knowinga deserving lad when he sees one, eh?"

He gave another round of his cunning winks, and Grannie replied, "Aw, well, it's nothing against either of them anyway. "

Cæsar was gitting as straight as a crowbar and as grim as a gannet. "Andwhen he left me, he gave me imperence and disrespeck. "

"But the lad meant no harm, father, " said Grannie; "and hadn't you toldhim to take to the road?"

"Let every bird hatch its own eggs, mother; it'll become you better, "said Cæsar. "Yes, sir, the lip of Satan and the imperence of sin. "

"Pete!" cried Philip, in a tone of incredulity; "why, he hasn't athought about you that isn't out of the Prayer-book. "

Cæsar snorted. "No? Then maybe that's where he's going for his curses. "

"No curses at all, " said Nancy Joe, from the side of the table, "but aright good lad though, and you've never had another that's been a patchon him. "

Cæsar screwed round to her and said severely, "Where there's geesethere's dirt, and where there's women there's talking. " Then turningback to Philip, he said in a tone of mock deference, "And may Ipresume, sir--a little question--being a thing like that's generalunderstood--what's his fortune?"

Philip fell back in his chair. "Fortune? Well, I didn't think that younow----"

"No?" said Cæsar. "We're not children of Israel in the wildernessgetting manna dropped from heaven twice a day. If it's only potatoes andherrings itself, we're wanting it three times, you see. "

Do what he would to crush it, Philip could not help feeling a sense ofrelief. Fate was interfering; the girl was not for Pete. For the firstmoment since he returned to the kitchen he breathed freely and fully. But then came the prick of conscience: he had come to plead for Pete, and he must be loyal; he must not yield; he must exhaust all hisresources of argument and persuasion. The wild idea occurred to him totake Cæsar by force of the Bible. 

"But think what the old book says, Mr. Cregeen, 'take no thought for themorrow'----"

"That's what Johnny Niplightly said, Mr. Christian, when he lit my kilnovernight and burnt my oats before morning. ". 

"'But consider the lilies'----"

"I have considered them, sir; but I'm foiling still and mother has tospin. "

"And isn't Pete able to toil, too, " said Philip boldly. "Nobody betterin the island; there's not a lazy bone in his body, and he'll earn hisliving anywhere. "

"What _is_ his living, sir?" said Cæsar. 

Philip halted for an answer, and then said, "Well, he's only with me inthe boat at present, Mr. Cregeen. "

"And what's he getting? His meat and drink and a bit of pence, eh? Andyou'll be selling up some day, it's like, and going away to Englandover, and then where is he? Let the girl marry a mother-naked man atonce. "

"But you're wanting help yourself, father, " said Grannie. "Yes, you arethough, and time for chapel too and aisément in your old days----"

"Give the lad my mill as well as my daughter, is that it, eh?" saidCæsar. "No, I'm not such a goose as yonder, either. I could get heirs, sir, heirs, bless ye--fifty acres and better, not to spake of thebas'es. But I can do without them. The Lord's blest me with enough. I'mnot for daubing grease on the tail of the fat pig. "

"Just so, Cæsar, " said Philip, "just so; you can afford to take a poorman for your son-in-law, and there's Pete----"

"I'd be badly in want of a bird, though, to give a groat for an owl, "said Cæsar. 

"The lad means well, anyway, " said Grannie; "and he was that good to hismother, poor thing--it was wonderful. "

"I knew the woman, " said Cæsar; "I broke a sod of her grave myself. Abrand plucked from the burning, but not a straight walker in thislife. And what is the lad himself? A monument of sin without a name. Abastard, what else? And that's not the port I'm sailing for. "

Down to this point Philip had been torn by conflicting feelings. Hewas no match for Cæsar in worldly logic, or at fencing with texts ofScripture. The devil had been whispering at his ear, "Let it alone, you'd better. " But his time had come at length to conquer both himselfand Cæsar. Rising to his feet at Cæsar's last word, he cried in a voiceof wrath, "What? You call yourself a Christian man, and punish the childfor the sin of the parent! No name, indeed! Let me tell you, Mr. CæsarCregeen, it's possible to have one name in heaven that's worse than noneat all on earth, and that's the name of a hypocrite. "

So saying he threw back his chair, and was making for the door, whenCæsar rose and said softly, "Come into the bar and have something. "Then, looking back at Philip's plate, he forced a laugh, and said, "Butyou've turned over your herring, sir--that's bad luck. " And, putting ahand on Philip's shoulder, he added, in a lower tone, "No disrespeckto you, sir; and no harm to the lad, but take my word for it, Mr. Christian, if there's an amble in the mare it'll be in the colt. "

Philip went off without another word. The moon was rising and whiteningas he stepped from the door. Outside the porch a figure flitted past himin the uncertain shadows with a merry trill of mischievous laughter. He found Pete in the road, puffing and blowing as before, but from adifferent cause. 

"The living devil's in the girl for sartin, " said Pete; "I can't get myanswer out of her either way. " He had been chasing her for his answer, and she had escaped him through a gate. "But what luck with the ouldman, Phil?"

Then Phil told him of the failure of his mission--told him plainly andfully but tenderly, softening the hard sayings but revealing the wholetruth. As he did so he was conscious that he was not feeling like onewho brings bad news. He knew that his mouth in the darkness was screwedup into an ugly smile, and, do what he would; he could not make itstraight and sorrowful. 

The happy laughter died off Pete's, lips, and he listened at first insilence, and afterwards with low growls. When Phil showed him how hispoverty was his calamity he said, "Ay, ay, I'm only a wooden-spoon man. "When Phil told him how Cæsar had ripped up their old dead quarrel hemuttered, "I'm on the ebby tide, Phil, that's it. " And when Phil hintedat what Cæsar had said of his mother and of the impediment of his ownbirth, a growl came up from the very depths of him, and he scraped thestones under his feet and said, "He shall repent it yet; yes, shall he. "

"Come, don't take it so much to heart--it's miserable to bring yousuch bad news, " said Phil; but he knew the sickly smile was on his lipsstill, and he hated himself for the sound of his own voice. 

Pete found no hollow ring in it. "God bless you, Phil, " he said; "you'vedone the best for me, I know that. My pocket's as low as my heart, andit isn't fair to the girl, or I shouldn't be asking the ould man's laveanyway. "

He stood a moment in silence, crunching the wooden laths of thegarden fence like matchwood in his fingers, and then said, with suddenresolution, "I know what I'll do. "

"What's that?" said Philip. . "I'll go abroad; I'll go to Kimberley. "

"Never!"

"Yes, will I though, and quick too. You heard what the men were sayingin the evening--there's Manx ones going by the boat in the morning?Well, I'll go with them. "

"And you talk of being low in your pocket, " said Phil. "Why, it willtake all you've got, man. "

"And more, too, " said Pete, "but you'll lend me the lave of thepassage-money. That's getting into debt, but no matter. When a manfalls into the water he needn't mind the rain. I'll make good money outyonder. "

A light had appeared at the window of an upper room, and Pete shookhis clenched fist at it and cried, "Good-bye, Master Cregeen. I'llput worlds between us. You were my master once, but nobody made you mymaster for ever--neither you nor no man. "

All this time Philip knew that hell was in his heart. The hand thathad let him loose when his anger got the better of him with Cæsar wasclutching at him again. Some evil voice at his ear was whispering, "Lethim go; lend him the money. "

"Come on, Pete, " he faltered, "and don't talk nonsense!"

But Pete heard nothing. He had taken a few steps forward, as far as tothe stable-yard, and was watching the light in the house. It was movingfrom window to window of the dark wall. "She's taking the father'scandle, " he muttered. "She's there, " he said softly. "No, she has gone. She's coming back though. " He lifted the stocking cap from his head andfumbled it in his hands. "God bless her, " he murmured. He sank to hisknees on the ground. "And take care of her while I'm away. "

The moon had come up in her whiteness behind, and all was quiet andsolemn around. Philip fell back and turned away his face. 

VIII. 

When Cæsar came in after seeing Philip to the door, he said, "Not a wordof this to the girl. You that are women are like pigs--we've got to pullthe way we don't want you. "

On that Kate herself came in, blushing a good deal, and fussing aboutwith great vigour. "Are you talking of the piggies, father?" she saidartfully. "How tiresome they are, to be sure! They came out into theyard when the moon rose and I had such work to get them back. "

Cæsar snorted a little, and gave the signal for bed. "Fairies indeed!"he said, in a tone of vast contempt, going to the corner to wind theclock. "Just wakeness of faith, " he said over the clank of the chain asthe weights rose; "and no trust in God neither, " he added, and then theclock struck ten. 

Grannie had lit two candles--one for herself and her husband, the otherfor Nancy Joe. Nancy had slyly filled three earthenware crocks withwater from the well, and had set them on the table, mumbling somethingabout the kettle and the morning. And Cæsar himself, pretending not tosee anything, and muttering dark words about waste, went from the clockto the hearth, and raked out the hot ashes to a flat surface, on whichyou might have laid a girdle for baking cakes. 

"Good-night, Nancy, " called Grannie, from half-way up the stairs, andCæsar, with his head down, followed grumbling. Nancy went off next, andthen Kate was left alone. She had to put out the lamp and wait for herfather's candle. 

When the lamp was gone the girl was in the dark, save for the dim lightof the smouldering fire. She began to tremble and to laugh in a whisper. Her eyes danced in the red glow of the dying turf. She slipped off hershoes and went to a closet in the wall. There she picked an apple out ofa barrel, and brought it to the fire and roasted it. Then, down on herknees before the hearth, she took took two pinches of the apple andswallowed them. After that and a little shudder she rose again, andturned about to go to bed, backwards, slowly, tremblingly, with measuredsteps, feeling her way past the furniture, having a shock whenshe touched anything, and laughing to herself, nervously, when sheremembered what it was. 

At the door of her father's room and Grannie's she called, with a quaverin her voice, and a sleepy grunt came out to her. She reached one handthrough the door, which was ajar, and took the burning candle. Then sheblew out the light with a trembling puff, that had to be twice repeated, and made for her own bedroom, still going backwards. 

It was a sweet little chamber over the dairy, smelling of new milk andripe apples, and very dainty in dimity and muslin. Two tiny windowslooked out from it, one on to the stable-yard and the other on to theorchard. The late moon came through the orchard window, over the headsof the dwarf trees, and the little white place was lit up from the floorto the sloping thatch. 

Kate went backwards as far as to the bed, and sat down on it She fanciedshe heard a step in the yard, but the yard window was at her back, andshe would not look behind. She listened, but heard nothing more except asee-sawing noise from the stable, where the mare was running her ropein the manger ring. Nothing but this and the cheep-cheep of a mouse thatwas gnawing the wood somewhere in the floor. 

"Will he come?" she asked herself. 

She rose and loosened her gown, and as it fell to her feet she laughed. 

"Which will it be, I wonder--which?" she whispered. 

The moonlight had crept up to the foot of the bed, and now lay onit like a broad blue sword speckled as with rust by the patchworkcounterpane. 

She freed her hair from its red ribbon, and it fell in a shower abouther face. All around her seemed hushed and awful. She shuddered again, and with a back ward hand drew down the sheets. Then she took a long, deep breath, like a sigh that is half a smile, and lay down to sleep. 

IX. 

Somewhere towards the dawn, in the vague shadow-land between a dream andthe awakening, Kate thought she was startled by a handful of rice thrownat her carriage on her marriage morning. The rattle came again, andthen she knew it was from gravel dashed at her bedroom window. As sherecognised the sound, a voice came as through a cavern, crying, "Kate!"She was fully awake by this time. "Then it's to be Pete, " she thought. "It's bound to be Pete, it's like, " she told herself. "It's himselfoutside, anyway. "

It was Pete indeed. He was standing in the thin darkness under thewindow, calling the girl's name out of the back of his throat, andwhistling to her in a sort of whisper. Presently he heard a movementinside the room, and he said over his shoulder, "She's coming. "

There was the click of a latch and the slithering of a sash, and thenout through the little dark frame came a head like a picture, with aface all laughter, crowned by a cataract of streaming black hair, androunded off at the throat by a shadowy hint of the white frills of anight-dress. 

"Kate, " said Pete again. 

She pretended to have come to the window merely to look out, and, likea true woman, she made a little start at the sound of his voice, and alittle cry of dismay at the idea that he was so close beneath and hadtaken her unawares. Then she peered down into the gloom and said, in atone of wondrous surprise, "It must be Pete, surely. "

"And so it is, Kate, " said Pete, "and he couldn't take rest withoutspaking to you once again. "

"Ah!" she said, looking back and covering her eyes, and thinking ofBlack Tom and the fairies. But suddenly the mischief of her sex camedancing into her blood, and she could not help but plague the lad. "Haveyou lost your way, Pete?" she asked, with an air of innocence. 

"Not my way, but myself, woman, " said Pete. 

"Lost yourself! Have the lad's wits gone moon-raking, I wonder? Are youwitched then, Pete?" she inquired, with vast solemnity. 

"Aw, witched enough. Kate----"

"Poor fellow!" sighed Kate. "Did she strike you unknown and sudden?"

"Unknown it was, Kirry, and sudden, too. Listen, though----"

"Aw dear, aw dear! Was it old Mrs. Cowley of the Curragh? Did she turninto a hare? Is it bitten you've been, Pete?"

"Aw, yes, bitten enough. But, Kate----"

"Then it was a dog, it's like. Is it flying from the water you are, Pete?"

"No, but flying _to_ the water, woman. Kate, I say----"

"Is it burning they're doing for it?"

"Burning and freezing both. Will you hear me, though? I'm goingaway--hundreds and thousands of miles away. "

Then from the window came a tone of great awe, uttered with face turnedupward as if to the last remaining star. 

"Poor boy! Poor boy! it's bitten he is, for sure. "

"Then it's yourself that's bitten me. Kirry----"

There was a little crow of gaiety. "Me? Am I the witch? You called me afairy in the road this evening. "

"A fairy you are, girl, and a witch too; but listen, now----"

"You said I was an angel, though, at the cowhouse gable; and an angeldoesn't bite. "

Then she barked like a dog, and laughed a shrill laugh like a witch, andbarked again. 

But Pete could bear no more. "Go on, then; go on with your capers! Goon!" he cried, in a voice of reproach. "It's not a heart that's atyou at all, girl, but only a stone. You see a man going away from theisland----"

"From the island?" Kate gasped. 

"Middling down in the mouth, too, and plagued out of his life betweenthe ruck of you, " continued Pete; "but God forgive you all, you can'thelp it. "

"Did you say you were going out of the island, Pete?"

"Coorse I did; but what's the odds? Africa, Kimberley, the Lord knowswhere----"

"Kimberley! Not Kimberley, Pete!"

"Kimberley or Timbuctoo, what's it matter to the like of you? A man'scoming up in the morning to bid you good-bye before an early sailing, and you're thinking of nothing but your capers and divilments. "

"It's you to know what a girl's thinking, isn't it, Mr. Pete? And whyare you flying in my face for a word?"

"Flying? I'm not flying. It's driven I am. "

"Driven, Pete?"

"Driven away by them that's thinking I'm not fit for you. Well, that'strue enough, but they shan't be telling me twice. "

"They? Who are they, Pete?"

"What's the odds? Flinging my mother at me, too--poor little mother!And putting the bastard on me, it's like. A respectable man's girl isn'tgoing begging that she need marry a lad without a name. "

There was a sudden ejaculation from the window-sash. "Who dared to saythat?"

"No matter. "

"Whoever they are, you can tell them, if it's me they mean, that, nameor no name, when I want to marry I'll marry the man I like. "

"If I thought that now, Kitty----"

"As for you, Mr. Pete, that's so ready with your cross words, you cango to your Kimberley. Yes, go, and welcome; and what's more--what'smore----"

But the voice of anger, in the half light overhead, broke down suddenlyinto an inarticulate gurgle. 

"Why, what's this?" said Pete in a flurry. "You're not crying though, Kate? Whatever am I saying to you, Kitty, woman? Here, here--bash me onthe head for a blockhead and an omathaun. "

And Pete was clambering up the wall by the side of the dairy window. 

"Get down, then, " whispered Kate. 

Her wrath was gone in a moment, and Pete, being nearer to her now, couldsee tears of laughter dancing in her eyes. 

"Get down, Pete, or I'll shut the window, I will--yes, I will. " And, toshow how much she was in earnest in getting out of his reach, she shutup the higher sash and opened the lower one. 

"Darling!" cried Pete. 

"Hush! What's that?" Kate whispered, and drew back on her knees. 

"Is the door of the pig-sty open again?" said Pete. 

Kate drew a breath of relief. "It's only somebody snoring, " she said. 

"The ould man, " said Pete. "That's all serene! A good ould sheepdog, that snaps more than, he bites, but he's best when he's sleeping--moresafer, anyway. "

"What's the good of going away, Pete?" said Kate. "You'd have to make afortune to satisfy father. "

"Others have done it, Kitty--why shouldn't I? Manx ones too--silverkings and diamond kings, and the Lord knows what. No fear of me! When Icome back it's a queen you'll be, woman--my queen, anyway, with pigs andcattle and a girl to wash and do for you. "

"So that's how you'd bribe a poor girl is it? But you'd have to turnreligious, or father would never consent. "

"When I come home again, Kitty, I'll be that religious you never seen. I'll be just rolling in it. You'll hear me spaking like the Book ofGenesis and Abraham, and his sons, and his cousins; I'll be coming upat night making love to you at the cowhouse door like the Acts of theApostles. "

"Well, that will be some sort of courting, anyway. But who says I'llbe wanting it? Who says I'm willing for you to go away at all with thenotion that I must be bound to marry you when you come back?"

"I do, " said Pete stoutly. 

"Oh, indeed, sir. "

"Listen. I'll be working like a nigger out yonder, and making my pile, and banking it up, and never seeing nothing but the goold and thegirls----"

"My goodness! What do you say?"

"Aw, never fear! I'm a one-woman man, Kate; but loving one is giving meeyes for all. And you'll be waiting for me constant, and never giving askute of your little eye to them drapers and druggists from Ramsey----"

"Not one of them? Not Jamesie Corrin, even--he's a nice boy, isJamesie. "

"That dandy-divil with the collar? Hould your capers, woman!"

"Nor young Ballawhaine--Ross Christian, you know?"

"Ross Christian be--well, no; but, honour bright, you'll be saying, 'Peter's coming; I must be thrue!'"

"So I've got my orders, sir, eh? It's all settled then, is it? Hadn'tyou better fix the wedding-day and take out the banns, now that yourhand is in? I have got nothing to do with it, seemingly. Nobody asksme. "

"Whist, woman!" cried Pete. "Don't you hear it?"

A cuckoo was passing over the house and calling. 

"It's over the thatch, Kate. 'Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!' Three times!Bravo! Three times is a good Amen. Omen is it? Have it as you like, love. "

The stars had paled out by this time, and the dawn was coming up like agrey vapour from the sea. 

"Ugh! the air feels late; I must be going in, " said Kate. 

"Only a bit of a draught from the mountains--it's not morning yet, " saidPete. 

A bird called from out of the mist somewhat far away. 

"It is, though. That's the throstle up the glen, " said Kate. 

Another bird answered from the eaves of the house. 

"And what's that?" said Pete. "Was it yourself, Kitty? How straight yourvoice is like the throstle's!"

She hung her head at the sweet praise, but answered tartly, "How peoplewill be talking!"

A dead white light came sweeping over the front of the house, and thetrees and the hedges, all quiet until then, began to shudder. Kateshuddered too, and drew the frills closer about her throat. "I'm going, Pete, " she whispered. 

"Not yet. It's only a taste of the salt from the sea, " said Pete. "Themoon's not out many minutes. "

"Why, you goose, it's been gone these two hours. This isn't Jupiter, where it's moonlight always. "

"Always moonlight in Jubiter, is it?" said Pete. "My goodness! Whatcoorting there must be there!"

A cock crowed from under the hen-roost, the dog barked indoors, and themare began to stamp in her stall. 

"When do you sail, Pete?"

"First tide--seven o'clock. "

"Time to be off, then. Good-bye!"

"Hould hard--a word first. "

"Not a word. I'm going back to bed. See, there's the sun coming up overthe mountains. "

"Only a touch of red on the tip of ould Cronky's nose. Listen! Just tokeep them dandy-divils from plaguing you, I'll tell Phil to have an eyeon you while I'm away. "

"Mr. Christian?"

"Call him Philip, Kate. He's as free as free. No pride at all. Let himtake care of you till I come back. "

"I'm shutting the window, Pete!"

"Wait! Something else. Bend down so the ould man won't hear. "

"I can't reach--what is it?"

"Your hand, then; I'll tell it to your hand. "

She hesitated a moment, and then dropped her hand over the window-sill, and he clutched at it and kissed it, and pushed back the white sleeveand ran up the arm with his lips as far as he could climb. 

"Another, my girl; take your time, one more--half a one, then. "

She drew her arm back until her hand got up to his hand, and then shesaid, "What's this? The mole on your finger still, Pete? You called mea witch--now see me charm it away. Listen!--'Ping, ping, prash, Cur yncadley-jiargan ass my chass. '"

She was uttering the Manx charm in a mock-solemn ululation when a boughsnapped in the orchard, and she cried, "What's that?"

"It's Philip. He's waiting under the apple-tree, " said Pete. 

"My goodness me!" said Kate, and down went the window-sash. 

A moment later it rose again, and there was the beautiful young face inits frame as before, but with the rosy light of the dawn on it. 

"Has he been there all the while?" she whispered. 

"What matter? It's only Phil. "

"Good-bye! Good luck!" and then the window went down for good. 

"Time to go, " said Philip, still in his tall silk hat and hisknickerbockers. He had been standing alone among the dead brown fern, the withering gorse, and the hanging brambles, gripping the apple-treeand swallowing the cry that was bubbling up to his throat, but forcinghimself to look upon Pete's happiness, which was his own calamity, though it was tearing his heart out, and he could hardly bear it. 

The birds were singing by this time, and Pete, going back, sang andwhistled with the best of them. 

X. 

In the mists of morning, Grannie had awakened in her bed with the turfyscraas of the thatch just visible above her, and the window-blind likea hazy moon floating on the wall at her side. And, fixing her nightcap, she had sighed and said, "I can't close my eyes for dreaming that thepoor lad has come to his end untimeously. "

Cæsar yawned, and asked, "What lad?"

"Young Pete, of course, " said Grannie. 

Cæsar _umpht_ and grunted. 

"We were poor ourselves when we began, father. "

Grannie felt the glare of the old man's eye on her in the darkness. "'Deed, we were; but people forget things. We had to borrow to buy ourbig overshot wheel; we had, though. And when ould Parson Harrison sentus the first boll of oats, we couldn't grind it for want of----"

Cæsar tugged at the counterpane and said, "Will you lie quiet, woman, and let a hard-working man sleep?"

"Then don't be the young man's destruction, Cæsar. "

Cæsar made a contemptuous snort, and pulled the bedclothes about hishead. 

"Aw, 'deed, father, but the girl might do worse. A fine, strapping lad. And, dear heart, the cheerful face _at_ him! It's taking joy tolook at--like drawing water from a well! And the laugh _at_ the boy, too--that joyful, it's as good to hear in the morning as six pigs at alit----"

"Then marry the lad yourself, woman, and have done with it, " criedCæsar, and, so saying, he kicked out his leg, turned over to the wall, and began to snore with great vigour. 

XI. 

The tide was up in Ramsey Harbour, and rolling heavily on the shorebefore a fresh sea-breeze with a cold taste of the salt in it. A steamerlying by the quay was getting up steam; trucks were running on hergangways, the clanking crane over her hold was working, and there wasmuch shouting of name, and ordering and protesting, and general tumult. On the after-deck stood the emigrants for Kimberley, the Quarks fromGlen Rushen, and some of the young Gills from Castletown--stalwart lads, bearing themselves bravely in the midst of a circle of their friends, who talked and laughed to make them forget they were on the point ofgoing. 

Pete and Phil came up the quay, and were received by a shout ofincredulity from Quayle, the harbour-master. "What, are you going, too, Mr. Philip?" Philip answered him "No, " and passed on to the ship. 

Pete was still in his stocking cap and Wellington boots, but he had amonkey-jacket over his blue guernsey. Except for a parcel in a red printhandkerchief, this was all his kit and luggage. He felt a littlelost amid all the bustle, and looked helpless and unhappy. The busypreparations on land and shipboard had another effect on Philip. Hesniffed the breeze off the bay and laughed, and said, "The sea's callingme, Pete; I've half a mind to go with you. "

Pete answered with a watery smile. His high spirits were failing himat last. Five years were a long time to be away, if one built all one'shopes on coming back. So many things might happen, so many chances mightbefall. Pete had no heart for laughter. 

Philip had small mind for it, either, after the first rush of the saltin his blood was over. He felt at some moments as if hell itself wereinside of him. What troubled him most was that he could not, for thelife of him, be sorry that Pete was leaving the island. Once or twicesince they left Sulby he had been startled by the thought that he hatedPete. He knew that his lip curled down hard at sight of Pete's solemnface. But Pete never suspected this, and the innocent tenderness of therough fellow was every moment beating it down with blows that cut likeice and burnt like fire. 

They were standing by the forecastle head, and talking above the loudthrobbing of the funnel. 

"Good-bye, Phil; you've been wonderful good to me--better nor anybody inthe world. I've not been much of a chum for the like of you, either--youthat's college bred and ought to be the first gentry in the island ifeverybody had his own. But you shan't be ashamed for me, neither--no youshan't, so help me God! I won't be long away, Phil--maybe five years, maybe less, and when I come back you'll be the first Manxman living. No? But you will, though; you will, I'm telling you. No nonsense at all, man. Lave it to me to know. "

Philip's frosty blue eyes began to melt. 

"And if I come back rich, I'll be your ould friend again as much as acommon man may; and if I come back poor and disappointed and done for, I'll not claim you to disgrace you; and if I never come back at all, I'll be saying to myself in my dark hour somewhere, 'He'll spake up foryou at home, boy; _he'll_ not forget you. '"

Philip could hear no more for the puffing of the steam and the clankingof the chains. 

"Chut! the talk a man will put out when he's thinking of ould times goneby!"

The first bell rang on the bridge, and the harbour-master shouted, "Allashore, there!"

"Phil, there's one turn more I'll ask of you, and, if it's the last, it's the biggest. "

"What is it?"

"There's Kate, you know. Keep an eye on the girl while I'm away. Takea slieu round now and then, and put a sight on her. She'll not give askute at the heirs the ould man's telling of; but them young drapers anddruggists, they'll plague the life out of the girl. Bate them off, Phil. They're not worth a fudge with their fists. But don't use no violence. Just duck the dandy-divils in the harbour--that'll do. "

"No harm shall come to her while you are away. "

"Swear to it, Phil. Your word's your bond, I know that; but give me yourhand and swear to it--it'll be more surer. "

Philip gave his hand and his oath, and then tried to turn away, for heknew that his face was reddening. 

"Wait! There's another while your hand's in, Phil. Swear that nothingand nobody shall ever come between us two. "

"You know nothing ever will. "

"But swear to it, Phil. There's bad tongues going, and it'll make memore aisier. Whatever they do, whatever they say, friends and brothersto the last?"

Philip felt a buzzing in his head, and he was so dizzy that he couldhardly stand, but he took the second oath also. Then the bell rangagain, and there was a great hubbub. Gangways were drawn up, ropeswere let go, the captain called to the shore from the bridge, and theblustering harbour-master called to the bridge from the shore. 

"Go and stand on the end of the pier, Phil--just aback of thelighthouse--and I'll put myself at the stern. I want a friend's face tobe the last thing I see when I'm going away from the old home. "?

Philip could bear no more. The hate in his heart was mastered. It wasunder his feet. His flushed face was wet. 

The throbbing of the funnels ceased, and all that could be heard wasthe running of the tide in the harbour and the wash of the waves on theshore. Across the sea the sun came up boldly, "like a guest expected, "and down its dancing water-path the steamer moved away. Over the landold Bar-rule rose up like a sea king with hoar-frost on his forehead, and the smoke began to lift from the chimneys of the town at his feet. 

"Good-bye, little island, good-bye! I'll not forget you. I'm gettingkicked out of you, but you've been a good ould mother to me, and, Godhelp me, I'll come back to you yet. So long, little Mona, s'long? I'mlaving you, but I'm a Manxman still. "

Pete had meant to take off his stocking cap as they passed thelighthouse, and to dash the tears from his eyes like a man. But all thatPhilip could see from the end of the pier was a figure huddled up at thestern on a coil of rope. 

PART II. BOY AND GIRL. 

I. 

Auntie Nan had grown uneasy because Philip was not yet started in life. During the spell of his partnership with Pete she had protested and hehad coaxed, she had scolded and he had laughed. But when Pete was goneshe remembered her old device, and began to play on Philip through thememory of his father. 

One day the air was full of the sea freshness of a beautiful ManxNovember. Philip sniffed it from the porch after breakfast and thengathered up his tackle for cod. 

"The boat again, Philip?" said Auntie Nan. "Then promise me to be backfor tea. "

Philip gave his promise and kept it. When he returned after his day'sfishing the old lady was waiting for him in the little blue room whichshe called her own. The sweet place was more than usually dainty andcomfortable that day. A bright fire was burning, and everything seemedto be arranged so carefully and nattily. The table was laid with cupsand saucers, the kettle was singing on the jockey-bar, and AuntieNan herself, in a cap of black lace and a dress of russet silk withflounces, was fluttering about with an odour of lavender and the lightgaiety of a bird. 

"Why, what's the meaning of this?" said Philip. 

And the sweet old thing answered, half nervously, half jokingly, "Youdon't know? What a child it is, to be sure! So you don't remember whatday it is?"

"What day? The fifth of Nov--oh, my birthday! I had clean forgotten it, Auntie. "

"Yes, and you are one-and-twenty for tea-time. That's why I asked you tobe home. "

She poured out the tea, settled herself with her feet on the fender, allowed the cat to establish itself on her skirt, and then, with anervous smile and a slight depression of the heart, she began on hertask. 

"How the years roll on, Philip! It's twenty years since I gave youmy first birthday present I wasn't here when you were born, dear. Grandfather had forbidden me. Poor grandfather! But how I longed to comeand wash, and dress, and nurse my boy's boy, and call myself an auntiealoud! Oh, dear me, the day I first saw you! Shall I ever forget it?Grandfather and I were at Cowley, the draper's, when a beautiful youngperson stepped in with a baby. A little too gay, poor thing, and thatwas how I knew her. "

"My mother?"

"Yes, dear, and grandfather was standing with his back to the street. I grow hot to this day when I remember, but she didn't seem afraid. Shenodded and smiled and lifted the muslin veil from the baby's face, andsaid 'Who's he like, Miss Christian?' It was wonderful. You were asleep, and it was the same for all the world as if your father had slept backto be a baby. I was trembling fit to drop and couldn't answer, and thenyour mother saw grandfather, and before I could stop her she had touchedhim on the shoulder. He stood with his bad ear towards us, and his sightwas failing, too, but seeing the form of a lady beside him, he sweptround, and bowed low, and smiled and raised his hat, as his way was withall women. Then your mother held the baby up and said quite gaily, 'Isit one of the Ballures he is, Dempster, or one of the Ballawhaines?'Dear heart when I think of it! Grandfather straightened himself up, turned about, and was out on the street in an instant. "

"Poor father!" said Philip. 

Auntie Nan's eyes brightened. 

"I was going to tell you of your first birthday, dearest. Grandfatherhad gone then--poor grandfather!--and I had knitted you a little softcap of white wool, with a tassel and a pink bow. Your mother's fatherwas living still--Capt'n Billy, as they called him--and when I put thecap on your little head, he cried out, 'A sailor every inch of him!' Andsure enough, though I had never thought it, a sailor's cap it was. And Capt'n Billy put you on his knee, and looked at you sideways, andslapped his thigh, and blew a cloud of smoke from his long pipe andcried again, 'This boy is for a sailor, I'm telling you. ' You fellasleep in the old man's arms, and I carried you to your cot upstairs. Your father followed me into the bedroom, and your mother was therealready dusting the big shells on the mantelpiece. Poor Tom! I see himyet. He dropped his long white hand over the cot-rail, pushed back thelittle cap and the yellow curls from your forehead, and said proudly, 'Ah, no, this head wasn't built for a sailor!' He meant no harm, but--Oh, dear, Oh, dear!--your mother heard him, and thought he wasbelittling her and hers. 'These qualities!' she cried, and slashed theduster and flounced out of the room, and one of the shells fell witha clank into the fender. Your father turned his face to the window. I could have cried for shame that he should be ashamed before me. Butlooking out on the sea, --the bay was very loud that day, I remember--hesaid in his deep voice, that was like a mellow bell, and trembledratherly, 'It's not for nothing, Nannie, that the child has the foreheadof Napoleon. Only let God spare him and he'll be something some day, when his father, with his broken heart and his broken brain, is dead andgone, and the daisies cover him. '"

Auntie Nan carried her point. That night Philip laid up his boat for thewinter, and next morning he set his face towards Ballawhaine with theobject of enlisting Uncle Peter's help in starting upon the professionof the law. Auntie Nan went with him. She had urged him to the stepby the twofold plea that the Ballawhaine was his only male relative ofmature years, and that he had lately sent his own son Ross to study forthe bar in England. 

Both were nervous and uncertain on the way down; Auntie Nan talkedincessantly from under her poke-bonnet, thinking to keep up Philip'scourage. But when they came to the big gate and looked up at the turretsthrough the trees, her memory went back with deep tenderness to thedays when the house had been her home, and she began to cry in silence. Philip himself was not unmoved. This had been the birthplace andbirthright of his father. 

The English footman, in buff and scarlet, ushered them into thedrawing-room with the formality proper to strangers. 

To their surprise they found Ross there. He was sitting at the pianostrumming a music-hall ditty. As the door opened be shuffled to hisfeet, shook hands distantly with Auntie Nan, and nodded his head toPhilip. 

The young man was by this time a sapling well fed from the old tree. Taller than his father by many inches, broader, heavier, and larger inall ways, with the slow eyes of a seal and something of a seal's face aswell. But with his father's sprawling legs and his father's levity andirony of manner and of voice--a Manxman disguised out of all recognitionof race, and apeing the fashionable follies of the hour in London. 

Auntie Nan settled her umbrella, smoothed her gloves and her white fronthair, and inquired meekly if he was well. 

"Not very fit, " he drawled; "shouldn't be here if I were. But fatherworried my life out until I came back to recruit. "

"Perhaps, " said Auntie Nan, looking simple and sympathetic, "perhapsyou've been longing for home. It must be a great trial to a young manto live in London for the first time. That's where a young woman has theadvantage--she needn't leave home, at all events. Then your lodgings, perhaps they are not in the best part either. "

"I used to have chambers in an Inn of Court----"

Auntie Nan looked concerned. "I don't think I should like Philip to livelong at an inn, " she said. 

"But now I'm in rooms in the Hay market. "

Auntie Nan looked relieved. 

"That must be better, " she said. "Noisy in the mornings, perhaps, butyour evenings will be quiet for study, I should think. "

"Precisely, " said Boss, with a snigger, touching the piano again, andPhilip, sitting near the door, felt the palm of his hand itch for thewhole breadth of his cousin's cheek. 

Uncle Peter came in hurriedly, with short, nervous steps. His hair aswell as his eyebrows was now white, his eye was hollow, his cheeks werethin, his mouth was restless, and he had lost some of his upper teeth, he coughed frequently, he was shabbily dressed, and had the look of adying man. 

"Ah! it's you, Anne! and Philip, too. Good morning, Philip. Give thepiano a rest, Ross--that's a good lad. Well, Miss Christian, well!"

"Philip came of age yesterday, Peter, " said Auntie Nan in a timid voice. 

"Indeed!" said the Ballawhaine, "then Ross is twenty next month. Alittle more than a year and a month between them. "

He scrutinised the old lady's face for a moment without speaking, andthen said, "Well?"

"He would like to go to London to study for the bar, " faltered AuntieNan. 

"Why not the church at home?"

"The church would have been my own choice, Peter, but his father----"

The Ballawhaine crossed his leg over his knee. "His father was alwaysa man of a high stomach, ma'am, " he said. Then facing towards Philip, "Your idea would be to return to the island. "

"Yes, " said Philip. 

"Practice as an advocate, and push your way to insular preferment?"

"My father seemed to wish it, sir, " said Philip. 

The Ballawhaine turned back to Auntie Nan. "Well, Miss Christian?"

Auntie Nan fumbled the handle of her umbrella and began--"We werethinking, Peter--you see we know so little--now if his father had beenliving----"

The Ballawhaine coughed, scratched with his nail on his cheek, and said, "You wish me to put him with a barrister in chambers, is that it?"

With a nervous smile and a little laugh of relief Auntie Nan signifiedassent. 

"You are aware that a step like that costs money. How much have you gotto spend on it?"

"I'm afraid, Peter----"

"You thought I might find the expenses, eh?"

"It's so good of you to see it in the right way, Peter. "

The Ballawhaine made a wry face. "Listen, " he said dryly. "Ross has justgone to study for the English bar. "

"Yes, " said Auntie Nan eagerly, "and it was partly that----"

"Indeed!" said the Ballawhaine, raising his eyebrows. "I calculate thathis course in London will cost me, one thing with another, more than athousand pounds. "

Auntie Nan lifted her gloved hands in amazement. 

"That sum I am prepared to spend in order that my son, as an Englishbarrister, may have a better chance----"

"Do you know, we were thinking of that ourselves, Peter?" said AuntieNan. 

"A better chance, " the Ballawhaine continued, "of the few places open inthe island than if he were brought up at the Manx bar only, which wouldcost me less than half as much. "

"Oh! but the money will come back to you, both for Ross and Philip, "said Auntie Nan. 

The Ballawhaine coughed impatiently. "You don't read me, " he saidirritably. "These places are few, and Manx advocates are as thick asflies in a glue-pot. For every office there must be fifty applicants, but training counts for something, and influence for something, andfamily for something. "

Auntie Nan began to be penetrated as by a chill. 

"These, " said the Ballawhaine, "I bring to bear for Ross, that he maydistance all competitors. Do you read me now?"

"Read you, Peter?" said Auntie Nan. 

The Ballawhaine fixed his hollow eye upon her, and said, "What do youask me to do? You come here and ask me to provide, prepare, and equip arival to my own son. "

Auntie Nan had grasped his meaning at last. 

"But gracious me, Peter, " she said, "Philip is your own nephew, your ownbrother's son. "

The Ballawhaine rubbed the side of his nose with his lean forefinger, and said, "Near is my shirt, but nearer is my skin. "

Auntie Nan fixed her timid eyes upon him, and they grew brave intheir gathering indignation. "His father is dead, and he is poor andfriendless, " she said. 

"We've had differences on that subject before, mistress, " he answered. 

"And yet you begrudge him the little that would start him in life. "

"My own has earlier claim, ma'am. "

"Saving your presence, sir, let me tell you that every penny of themoney you are spending on Ross would have been Philip's this day ifthings had gone different. "

The Ballawhaine bit his lip. "Must I, for my sins, be compelled to putan end to this interview?"

He rose to go to the door. Philip rose also. 

"Do you mean it?" said Auntie Nan. "Would you dare to turn me out of thehouse?"

"Come, Auntie, what's the use?" said Philip. 

The Ballawhaine was drumming on the edge of the open door. "You areright, young man, " he said, "a woman's hysteria is of _no_ use. "

"That will do, sir, " said Philip in a firm voice. 

The Ballawhaine put his hand familiarly on Philip's shoulder. "TryBishop Wilson's theological college, my friend; its cheap and----"

"Take your hand from him, Peter Christian, " cried Auntie Nan. Her eyesflashed, her cheeks were aflame, her little gloved hands were clenched. "You made war between his father and your father, and when I would havemade peace you prevented me. Your father is dead, and your brother isdead, and both died in hate that might have died in love, only for thelies you told and the deceit you practised. But they have gone where themask falls from all faces, and they have met before this, eye to eye, and hand to hand. Yes, and they are looking down on you now, PeterChristian, and they know you at last for what you are and always havebeen--a deceiver and a thief. "

By an involuntary impulse the Ballawhaine turned his eyes upward to theceiling while she spoke, as if he had expected to see the ghosts of hisfather and his brother threatening him. 

"Is the woman mad at all?" he cried; and the timid old lady, lifted outof herself by the flame of her anger, blazed at him again with a tongueof fire. 

"You have done wrong, Peter Christian, much wrong; you've done wrong allyour days, and whatever your motive, God will find it out, and on thatsecret place he will bring your punishment. If it was only greed, you'vegot your wages; but no good will they bring to you, for another willspend them, and you will see them wasted like water from the raggedrock. And if it was hate as well, you will live till it comes backon your own head like burning coal. I know it, I feel it, " she cried, sweeping into the hall, "and sorry I am to say it before your own son, who ought to honour and respect his father, but can't; no, he can't andnever will, or else he has a heart to match your own in wickedness, andno bowels of compassion at him either. "

"Come, Auntie, come, " said Philip, putting his arm about the oldlady's waist. But she swerved round again to where the Ballawhaine cameslinking behind him. 

"Turn me out of the house, will you?" she cried. "The place where Ilived fifteen years, and as mistress, too, until your evil deeds madeyou master. Many a good cry I've had that it's only a woman I am, andcan do nothing on my own head. But I would rather be a woman that hasn'ta roof to cover her than a man that can't warm to his own flesh andblood. Don't think I begrudge you your house, Peter Christian, thoughit was my old home, and I love it, for all I'm shown no respect in it Iwould have you to know, sir, that it isn't our houses we live in afterall, but our hearts--our hearts, Peter Christian--do you hear me?--ourhearts, and yours is full of darkness and dirt--and always will be, always will be. "

"Come, come, Auntie, come, " cried Philip again, and the sweet oldthing, too gentle to hurt a fly, turned on him also with the fury of awild-cat. 

"Go along yourself with your 'come' and 'come' and 'come. ' Say less anddo more. "

With that final outburst she swept down the steps and along the path, leaving Philip three paces behind, and the Ballawhaine with a terrifiedlook under the stuffed cormorant in the fanlight above the open door. 

The fiery mood lasted her half way home, and then broke down in atorrent of tears. 

"Oh dear! oh dear!" she cried. "I've been too hasty. After all, he isyour only relative. What shall I do now? Oh, what shall I do now?"

Philip was walking steadily half a step behind, and he had never oncespoken since they left Ballawhaine. 

"Pack my bag to-night, Auntie, " said he with the voice of a man; "Ishall start for Douglas by the coach to-morrow morning. "

He sought out the best known of the Manx advocates, a college friend ofhis father's, and said to him, "I've sixty pounds a year, sir, from mymother's father, and my aunt has enough of her own to live on. Can Iafford to pay your premium?"

The lawyer looked at him attentively for a moment, and answered, "No, you can't, " and Philip's face began to fall. 

"But I'll take you the five years for nothing, Mr. Christian, " the wiseman added, "and if you suit me, I'll give you wages after two. "

II. 

Philip did not forget the task wherewith Pete had charged him. It is afamiliar duty in the Isle of Man, and he who discharges it is known bya familiar name. They call him the _Dooiney Molla_--literally, the"man-praiser;" and his primary function is that of an informal, unmercenary, purely friendly and philanthropic matchmaker, introducedby the young man to persuade the parents of the young woman that he is asplendid fellow, with substantial possessions or magnificent prospects, and entirely fit to marry her. But he has a secondary function, lessfrequent, though scarcely less familiar; and it is that of lover byproxy, or intended husband by deputy, with duties of moral guardianshipover the girl while the man himself is off "at the herrings, " or away"at the mackerel, " or abroad on wider voyages. 

This second task, having gone through the first with dubious success, Philip discharged with conscientious zeal. The effects were peculiar. Their earliest manifestations were, as was most proper, on Philipand Kate themselves. Philip grew to be grave and wondrous solemn, forassuming the tone of guardian lifted his manners above all levity. Katebecame suddenly very quiet and meek, very watchful and modest, soft ofvoice and most apt to blush. The girl who had hectored it over Pete andplayed little mistress over everybody else, grew to be like a dove underthe eye of Philip. A kind of awe fell on her whenever he was near. Shefound it sweet to listen to his words of wisdom when he discoursed, andsweeter still to obey his will when he gave commands. The little wistfulhead was always turning in his direction; his voice was like joy-bellsin her ears; his parting how under his lifted hat remained with her asa dream until the following day. She hardly knew what great change hadbeen wrought in her, and her people at home were puzzled. 

"Is it not very well you are, Kirry, woman?" said Grannie. 

"Well enough, mother; why not?" said Kate. 

"Is it the toothache that's plaguing you?"

"No. "

"Then maybe it's the new hat in the window at Miss Clu-cas's?"

"Hould your tongue, woman, " whispered Cæsar behind the back of his hand. "It's the Spirit that's working on the girl. Give it lave, mother; giveit lave. "

"Give it fiddlesticks, " said Nancy Joe. "Give it brimstone and treacleand a cupful of wormwood and camomile. "

When Philip and Kate were together, their talk was all of Pete. It was"Pete likes this, " and "Pete hates that, " and "Pete always says soand so. " That was their way of keeping up the recollection of Pete'sexistence; and the uses they put poor Pete to were many and peculiar. 

One night "The Manx Fairy" was merry and noisy with a "Scaltha, " aChristmas supper given by the captain of a fishing-boat to the crew thathe meant to engage for the season. Wives, sweethearts, and friends werethere, and the customs and superstitions of the hour were honoured. 

"Isn't it the funniest thing in the world, Philip?" giggled Kate fromthe back of the door, and a moment afterwards she was standing alonewith him in the lobby, looking demurely down at his boots. 

"I suppose I ought to apologise. "

"Why so?"

"For calling you that. "

"Pete calls me Philip. Why shouldn't you?"

The furtive eyes rose to the buttons of his waistcoat. "Well, no; therecan't be much harm in calling you what Pete calls you, can there? Butthen--"

"Well?"

"He calls me Kate. "

"Do you think he would like me to do so?"

"I'm sure he would. "

"Shall we, then?"

"I wonder!"

"Just for Pete's sake?"

"Just. "

"Kate!"

"Philip!"

They didn't know what they felt. It was something exquisite, somethingdelicious; so sweet, so tender, they could only laugh as if some one hadtickled them. 

"Of course, we need not do it except when we are quite by ourselves, "said Kate. 

"Oh no, of course not, only when we are quite alone, " said Philip. 

Thus they threw dust into each other's eyes, and walked hand in hand onthe edge of a precipice. 

The last day of the old year after Pete's departure found Philipattending to his duty. 

"Are you going to put the new year in anywhere, Philip?" said Kate, fromthe door of the porch. 

"I should be the first-foot here, only I'm no use as a qualtagh, " saidPhilip. 

"Why not?"

"I'm a fair man, and would bring you no luck, you know. "

"Ah!"

There was silence for a moment, and then Kate cried "_I_ know. "

"Yes?"

"Come for Pete--he's dark enough, anyway. "

Philip was much impressed. "That's a good idea, " he said gravely. "Beingqualtagh for Pete is a good idea. His first New Year from home, too, poor fellow!"

"Exactly, " said Kate. 

"Shall I, then?"

"I'll expect you at the very stroke of twelve. "

Philip was going off. "And, Philip!"

"Yes?"

Then a low voice, so soft, so sweet, so merry, came from the doorwayinto the dark, "I'll be standing at the door of the dairy. "

Philip began to feel alarm, and resolved to take for the future alighter view of his duties. He would visit "The Manx Fairy" lessfrequently. As soon as the Christmas holidays were over he would devotehimself to his studies, and come back to Sulby no more for half a year. But the Manx Christmas is long. It begins on the 24th of December, andonly ends for good on the 6th of January. In the country places, whichstill preserve the old traditions, the culminating day is Twelfth Day. It is then that they "cut off the fiddler's head, " and play valentines, which they call the "Goggans. " The girls set a row of mugs on the hearthin front of the fire, put something into each of them as a symbol of atrade, and troop out to the stairs. Then the boys change the order ofthe mugs, and the girls come back blindfold, one by one, to select theirgoggans. According to the goggans they lay hands on, so will be thetrades of their husbands. 

At this game, played at "The Manx Fairy" on the last night of Philip'sholiday, Csesar being abroad on an evangelising errand, Kate wasexpected to draw water, but she drew a quill. 

"A pen! A pen!" cried the boys. "Who says the girl is to marry a sailor?The ship isn't built that's to drown her husband. "

"Good-night all, " said Philip. 

"Good-night, Mr. Christian, good-night, sir, " said the boys. 

Kate slipped after him to the door. "Going so early, Philip?"

"I've to be back at Douglas to-morrow morning, " said Philip. 

"I suppose we shan't see you very soon?"

"No, I must set to work in earnest now. "

"A fortnight--a month may be?"

"Yes, and six months--I intend to do nothing else for half a year. "

"That's a long time, isn't it, Philip?"

"Not so long as I've wasted. "

"Wasted? So you call it wasted? Of course, it's nothing to me--butthere's your aunt----"

"A man can't always be dangling about women, " said Philip. 

Kate began to laugh. 

"What are you laughing at?"

"I'm so glad I'm a girl, " said Kate. 

"Well, so am I, " said Philip. 

"Are you?"

It came at his face like a flash of lightning, and Philip stammered, "Imean--that is--you know--what about Pete?"

"Oh, is that all? Well, good-night, if you must go. Shall I bring youthe lantern? No need? Starlight, is it? You can see your way to the gatequite plainly? Very well, if you don't want showing. Good-night!"

The last words, in an injured tone, were half lost behind the closingdoor. 

But the heart of a girl is a dark forest, and Kate had determined that, work or no work, so long a spell as six months Philip should not beaway. 

III. 

One morning in the late spring there came to Douglas a startling andmost appalling piece of news---Ross Christian was constantly seen at"The Manx Fairy. " On the evening of that day Philip reappeared at Sulby. He had come down in high wrath, inventing righteous speeches by theway on plighted troths and broken pledges. Ross was there in lacqueredboots, light kid gloves, frock coat, and pepper and salt trousers, leaning with elbow on the counter, that he might talk to Kate, whowas serving. Philip had never before seen her at that task, and hisindignation was extreme. He was more than ever sure that Grannie was asimpleton and Cæsar a brazen hypocrite. 

Kate nodded gaily to him as he entered, and then continued herconversation with Ross. There was a look in her eyes that was new tohim, and it caused him to change his purpose. He would not be indignant, he would be cynical, he would be nasty, he would wait his opportunityand put in with some cutting remark. So, at Cæsar's invitation andGrannie's welcome, he pushed through the bar-room to the kitchen, exchanged salutations, and then sat down to watch and to listen. 

The conversation beyond the glass partition was eager and enthusiastic. Ross was fluent and Kate was vivacious. 

"My friend Monty?"

"Yes; who is Monty?"

"He's the centre of the Fancy. "

"The Fancy!"

"Ornaments of the Ring, you know. Come now, surely you know the Ring, mydear. His rooms in St. James's Street are full of them every night. Allsorts, you know--featherweights, and heavy-weights, and greyhounds. Andthe faces! My goodness, you should see them. Such worn-out old images. Knowledge boxes all awry, mouths crooked, and noses that have had theupper-cut. But good men all; good to take their gruel, you know. Montywill have nothing else about him. He was Tom Spring's packer. Neverheard of Tom Spring? Tom of Bedford, the incorruptible, you know, onlyhe fought cross that day. Monty lost a thousand, and Tom keeps a publicin Holborn now with pictures of the Fancy round the walls. "

Then Kate, with a laugh, said something which Philip did not catch, because Cæsar was rustling the newspaper he was reading. 

"Ladies come?" said Ross. "Girls at Monty's suppers? Rather! what shouldyou think? Cleopatra--but you ought to be there. I must be getting offmyself very soon. There's a supper coming off next week at HandsomeHoney's. Who's Honey? Proprietor of a night-house in the Haymarket. Night-house? You come and see, my dear. "

Cæsar dropped the newspaper and looked across at Philip. The gaze waslong and embarrassing, and, for want of better conversation, Philipasked Cæsar if he was thinking. 

"Aw, thinking, thinking, and thinking again, sir, " said Cæsar. Then, drawing his chair nearer to Philip's, he added, in a half whisper, "I'mgetting a bit of a skute into something, though. See yonder? They'recalling his father a miser. The man's racking his tenants and starvinghis land. But I believe enough the young brass lagh (a weed) is chokingthe ould grain. "

Cæsar, as he spoke, tipped his thumb over his shoulder in the directionof Ross, and, seeing this, Ross interrupted his conversation with Kateto address himself to her father. 

"So you've been reading the paper, Mr. Cregeen?"

"Aw, reading and reading, " said Cæsar grumpily. Then in another tone, "You're home again from London, sir? Great doings yonder, they'retelling me. Battles, sir, great battles. "

Ross elevated his eyebrows. "Have you heard of them then?" he asked. 

"Aw, heard enough, " said Cæsar, "meetings, and conferences, andconventions, and I don't know what. "

"Oh, oh, I see, " said Ross, with a look at Kate. 

"They're doing without hell in England now-a-days--that's a quare thing, sir. Conditional immorality they're calling it--the singlerest thing Iknow. Taking hell away drops the tailboard out of a man's religion, eh?"

The time for closing came, and Philip had waited in vain. Only one cuthad come his way, and that had not been his own. As he rose to go, Kate had said, "We didn't expect to see you again for six months, Mr. Christian. "

"So it seems, " said Philip, and Kate laughed a little, and that was allthe work of his evening, and the whole result of his errand. 

Cæsar was waiting for him in the porch. His face was white, and ittwitched visibly. It was plain to see that the natural man was fightingin Cæsar. "Mr. Christian, sir, " said he, "are you the gentleman thatcame here to speak to me for Peter Quilliam?"

"I am, " said Philip. 

"Then do you remember the ould Manx saying, 'Perhaps the last dog may becatching the hare?'"

"Leave it to me, Mr. Cregeen, " said Philip through his teeth. 

Half a minute afterwards he was swinging down the dark road homewards, by the side of Ross, who was drawling along with his cold voice. 

"So you've started on your light-weight handicap, Philip. Father wasmonstrous unreasonable that day. Seemed to think I was coming back hereto put my shoulder out for your high bailiffships and bum-bailiffshipsand heaven knows what. You're welcome to the lot for me, Philip. Thatgirl's wonderful, though. It's positively miraculous, too; she's theliving picture of a girl of my friend Montague's. Eyes, hair, thatnervous movement of the mouth--everything. Old man looked glum enough, though. Poor little woman. I suppose she's past praying for. The oldhypocrite will hold her like a dove in the claws of a buzzard hawk tillshe throws herself away on some Manx omathaun. It's the way with halfthese pretty creatures--they're wasted. "

Philip's blood was boiling. "Do you call it being wasted when a goodgirl is married to an honest man?" he asked. 

"I do; because a girl like this can never marry the right man. The manwho is worthy of her cannot marry her, and the man who marries herisn't worthy of her. It's like this, Philip. She's young, she's pretty, perhaps beautiful, has manners and taste, and some refinement. Theman of her own class is clumsy and ignorant, and stupid and poor. She doesn't want him, and the man she does want the man she's fitfor--daren't marry her; it would be social suicide. "

"And so, " said Philip bitterly, "to save the man above from socialsuicide, the girl beneath must choose moral death--is that it?"

Ross laughed. "Do you know I thought old Jeremiah was at you in thecorner there, Philip. But look at it straight. Here's a girl like that. Two things are open to her--two only. Say she marries your Manx fellow, what follows? A thatched cottage three fields back from the mountainroad, two rooms, a cowhouse, a crock, a dresser, a press, a form, athree-legged stool, an armchair, and a clock with a dirty face, hangingon a nail in the wall. Milking, weeding, digging, ninepence a day, and acan of buttermilk, with a lump of butter thrown in. Potatoes, herrings, and barley bonnag. Year one, a baby, a boy; year two, another baby, agirl; year three, twins; year four, barefooted children squalling, dirty house, man grumbling, woman distracted, measles, hooping-cough; ajourney at the tail of a cart to the bottom of the valley, and the awfulwords 'I am the----'"

"Hush man!" said Philip. They were passing Lezayre churchyard. When theyhad left it behind, he added, with a grim curl of the lip, which waslost in the darkness, "Well, that's one side. What's the other?"

"Life, " said Ross. "Short and sweet, perhaps. Everything she wants, everything she can wish for--five years, four years, three years--whatmatter?"

"And then?"

"Every one for himself and God for us all, my boy. She's as happy as theday while it lasts, lifts her head like a rosebud in the sun----"

"Then drops it, I suppose, like a rose-leaf in the mud. " Ross laughedagain. "Yes, it's a fact, old Jeremiah _has_ been at you, Philip. Poorlittle Kitty----"

"Keep the girl's name out of it, if you please. "

Ross gave a long whistle. "I was only saying the poor little woman----"

"It's damnable, and I'll have no more of it. "

"There's no duty on speech, I hope, in your precious Isle of Man. "

"There is, though, " said Philip, "a duty of decency and honour, andto name that girl, foolish as she is, in the same breath with yourwomen--But here, listen to me. Best tell you now, so there may be nomistake and no excuse. Miss Cregeen is to be married to a friend ofmine. I needn't say who he is--he comes close enough to you at allevents. When he's at home, he's able to take care of his own affairs;but while he's abroad I've got to see that no harm comes to his promisedwife. I mean to do it, too. Do you understand me, Ross? I mean to do it. Good night!"

They were at the gate of Ballawhaine by this time, and Ross went throughit giggling. 

IV. 

The following evening found Philip at "The Manx Fairy" again. Ross wasthere as usual, and he was laughing and talking in a low tone with Kate. This made Philip squirm on his chair, but Kate's behaviour torturedhim. Her enjoyment of the man's jests was almost uproarious. She wassignalling to him and peering up at him gaily. Her conduct disgustedPhilip. It seemed to him an aggravation of her offence that as often ashe caught the look of her face there was a roguish twinkle in the eye onhis side, and a deliberate cast in his direction. This open disregardof the sanctity of a pledged word, this barefaced indifference to thepresence of him who stood to represent it, was positively indecent. Thiswas what women were! Deceit was bred in their bones. 

It added to Philip's gathering wrath that Cæsar, who sat inshirt-sleeves making up his milling accounts from slates ciphered withcrosses, and triangles, and circles, and half circles, was lifting hiseyes from time to time to look first at them and then at him, with anexpression of contempt. 

At a burst of fresh laughter and a shot of the bright eyes, Philipsurged up to his feet, thrust himself between Ross and Kate, turned hisback on him and his face to her, and said in a peremptory voice, "Comeinto the parlour instantly--I have something to say to you. "

"Oh, indeed!" said Kate. 

But she came, looking mischievous and yet demure, with her head down buther eyes peering under their long upper lashes. 

"Why don't you send this fellow about his business?" said Philip. 

Kate looked up in blank surprise. "What fellow?" she said. 

"What fellow?" said Philip, "why, this one that is shillyshallying withyou night after night. "

"You can never mean your own cousin, Philip?" said Kate. 

"More's the pity if he is my cousin, but he's no fit company for you. "

"I'm sure the gentleman is polite enough. "

"So's the devil himself. "

"He can behave and keep his temper, anyway. "

"Then it's the only thing he can keep. He can't keep his character orhis credit or his honor, and you should not encourage him. "

Kate's under lip began to show the inner half. "Who says I encouragehim?"

"I do. "

"What right have you?"

"Haven't I seen you with my own eyes?"

Kate grew defiant. "Well, and what if you have?"

"Then you are a jade and a coquette. "

The word hissed out like steam from a kettle. Kate saw it coming andtook it full in the face. She felt an impulse to scream with laughter, so she seized her opportunity and cried. 

Philip's temper began to ebb. "That man would be a poor bargain, Kate, if he were twenty times the heir of Ballawhaine. Can't you gatherfrom his conversation what his life and companions are? Of course it'snothing to me, Kate----"

"No, it's nothing to you, " whimpered Kate, from behind both hands. 

"I've no right----"

"Of course not; you've no right, " said Kate, and she stole a looksideways. 

"Only----"

Philip did not see the glance that came from the corner of Kate's eye. 

"When a girl forgets a manly fellow, who happens to be abroad, for thefirst rascal that comes along with his dirty lands--"

Down went the hands with an impatient fling. "What are his lands to me?"

"Then it's my duty as a friend----"

"Duty indeed! Just what every old busybody says. "

Philip gripped her wrist. "Listen to me. If you don't send this manpacking----"

"You are hurting me. Let go my arm. "

Philip flung it aside and said, "What do I care?"

"Then why do you call me a coquette?"

"Do as you like. "

"So I will. Philip! Philip! Phil! He's gone. "

It was twenty miles by coach and rail from Douglas to Sulby, butPhilip was back at "The Manx Fairy" the next evening also. He found asaddle-horse linked to the gate-post and Ross inside the house with ariding-whip in his hand, beating the leg of his riding-breeches. 

When Philip appeared, Kate began to look alarmed, and Ross to look ugly. Cæsar, who was taking his tea in the ingle, was having an unpleasantpassage with Grannie in side-breaths by the fire. 

"Bad, bad, a notorious bad liver and dirty with the tongue, " said Cæsar. 

"Chut, father!" said Grannie. "The young man's civil enough, and girlswill be girls. What's a word or a look or a laugh when you're young andhave a face that's fit for anything. "

"Better her face should be pitted with smallpox than bring her to thepit of hell, " said Cæsar. "All flesh is grass: the grass withereth, theflower fadeth. "

Nancy Joe came from the dairy at that moment. "Gracious me I did you seethat now?" she said. "I wonder at Kitty. But it's the way of the men, smiling and smiling and maning nothing. "

"Hm! They mane a dale, " growled Cæsar. 

Ross had recovered from his uneasiness at Philip's entrance, and wasengaged in some narration whereof the only words that reached thekitchen were _I know_ and _I know_ repeated frequently. 

"You seem to know a dale, sir, " shouted Cæsar; "do you know what it isto be saved?"

There was silence for a moment, and then Ross, polishing his massivesignet ring on his corduroy waistcoat, said, "Is that the oldgentleman's complaint, I wonder?"

"My husband is a local preacher and always strong for salvation, " saidGrannie by way of peace. 

"Is that all?" said Ross. "I thought perhaps he had taken more wine thanthe sacrament. "

"You're my cross, woman, " muttered Cæsar, "but no cross no crown. "

"Lave women's matters alone, father; it'll become you better, " saidGrannie. 

"Laugh as you like, Mistress Cregeen; there's One above, there's Oneabove. "

Ross had resumed his conversation with Kate, who was looking frightened. And listening with all his ears, Philip caught the substance of what wassaid. 

"I'm due back by this time. There's the supper at Handsome Honey's, not to speak of the everlasting examinations. But somehow I can't tearmyself away. Why not? Can't you guess? No? Not a notion? I would goto-morrow--Kitty, a word in your ear----"

"I believe in my heart that man is for kissing her, " said Cæsar. "If hedoes, then by--he's done it! Hould, sir. "

Cæsar had risen to his feet, and in a moment the house was in an uproar. Ross lifted his head like a cock. "Were you speaking to me, mister?" heasked. 

"I was, and don't demane yourself like that again, " said Cæsar. 

"Like what?" said Ross. 

"Paying coort to a girl that isn't fit for you. "

Ross lifted his hat, "Do you mean this young lady?"

"No young lady at all, sir, but the daughter of a plain, respectable manthat isn't going to see her fooled. Your hat to your head, sir. You'llbe wanting it for the road. "

"Father!" cried Kate, in a voice of fear. 

Cæsar turned his rough shoulder and said, "Go to your room, ma'am, andkeep it for a week. "

"You may go, " said Ross. "I'll spare the old simpleton for your sake, Kate. "

"You'll spare me, sir?" cried Cæsar. "I've seen the day--but thankthe Lord for restraining grace! Spare me? If you had said as muchfive-and-twenty years ago, sir, your head would have gone ringingagainst the wall. "

"I'll spare you no more, then, " said Ross. "Take that--and that. "

Amid screams from the women, two sounding blows fell on Cæsar's face. Atthe next instant Philip was standing between the two men. 

"Come this way, " he said, addressing Ross. 

"If I like, " Ross answered. 

"This way, I tell you, " said Philip. 

Ross snapped his fingers. "As you please, " he said, and then followedPhilip out of the house. 

Kate had run upstairs in terror, but five minutes afterwards she wason the road, with a face full of distress, and a shawl over head andshoulders. At the bridge she met Kelly, the postman. 

"Which way have they gone, " she panted, "the young Ballawhaine andPhilip Christian?"

"I saw them heading down to the Curragh, " said Kelly, and Kate in theshawl, flew like a bird over the ground in that direction. 

V. 

The two young men went on without a word. Philip walked with longstrides three paces in front, with head thrown back, pallid face andcontracted features, mouth firmly shut, arms stiff by his side, anddifficult and audible breathing. Ross slouched behind with an air ofelaborate carelessness, his horse beside him, the reins over its headand round his arm, the riding-whip under his other arm-pit, and both hishands deep in the breeches pockets. There was no road the way theywent, but only a cart track, interrupted here and there by a gate, andbordered by square turf pits half full of water. 

The days were long and the light was not yet failing. Beyond the gorse, the willows, the reeds, the rushes and the sally bushes of the flatland, the sun was setting over a streak of gold on the sea. They hadleft behind them the smell of burning turf, of crackling sticks, of fish, and of the cowhouse, and were come into the atmosphere offlowering gorse and damp scraa soil and brine. 

"Far enough, aren't we?" shouted Ross, but Philip pushed on. He drew upat last in an open space, where the gorse had been burnt away and itsblack remains desolated the surface and killed the odours of life. Therewas not a house near, not a landmark in sight, except a windmill onthe sea's verge, and the ugly tower of a church, like the funnel of asteamship between sea and sky. 

"We're alone at last, " he said hoarsely. 

"We are, " said Ross, interrupting the whistling of a tune, "and now thatyou've got me here, perhaps you'll be good enough to tell me what we'vecome for. "

Philip made no more answer than to strip himself of his coat andwaistcoat. 

"You're never going to make a serious business of this stupid affair?"said Ross, leaning against the horse and slapping the sole of one footwith the whip. 

"Take off your coat, " said Philip in a thick voice. 

"Can I help it if a pretty girl----" began Ross. 

"Will you strip?" cried Philip. 

Ross laughed. "Ah! now I remember our talk of the other night. But youdon't mean to say, " he said, flipping at the flies at the horse's head, "that because the little woman is forgetting the curmudgeon that'sabroad----"

Philip strode up to him with clenched hands and quivering lips and said, "Will you fight?"

Ross laughed again, but the blood was in his face, and he saidtauntingly, "I wouldn't distress myself, man. Daresay I'll be done withthe girl before the fellow----"

"You're a scoundrel, " cried Philip, "and if you won't stand up tome----"

Ross flung away his whip. "If I must, I must, " he said, and then threwthe horse's reins round the charred arm of a half-destroyed gorse tree. 

A minute afterwards the young men stood face to face. 

"Stop, " said Ross, "let me tell you first; it's only fair. Since I wentup to London I've learnt a thing or two. I've stood up before men thatcan strip a picture; I've been opposite talent and I can peck a bit, butI've never heard that you can stop a blow. "

"Are you ready?" cried Philip. 

"As you will. You shall have one round, you'll want no more. "

The young men looked badly matched. Ross, in riding-breeches and shirt, with red bullet head and sprawling feet, arms like an oak and veins likewillow boughs. Philip in shirt and knickerbockers, with long fair hair, quivering face, and delicate figure. It was strength and some skillagainst nerve alone. 

Like a rush of wind Philip came on, striking right and left, and wasdriven back by a left-hand body-blow. 

"There, you've got it, " said Ross, smiling benignly. "Didn't I tell you?That's old Bristol Bull to begin with. "

Philip rushed on again, and came back with a smashing blow that cut hisnether lip. 

"You've got a second, " said Ross. "Have you had enough?"

Philip did not hear, but sprang fiercely at Ross once more. The nextinstant he was on the ground. Then Ross took on a manner of uttercontempt. "I can't keep on flipping at you all night. "

"Mock me when you've beaten me, " said Philip, and he was on his feetagain, somewhat blown, but fresh as to spirit and doggedly resolute. 

"Toe the scratch, then, " said Ross. "I must say you're good at yourgruel. "

Philip flung himself on his man a third time, and fell more heavily thanbefore, under a flush hit that seemed to bury itself in his chest. 

"I can't go on fighting a man that's as good for nothing as my oldgrandmother, " said Ross. 

But his contempt was abating; he was growing uneasy; Philip was beforehim as fierce as ever. 

"Fight your equal, " he cried. 

"I'll fight you, " growled Philip. 

"You're not fit. Give it up. And look, the dark is falling. "

"There's enough daylight yet. Come on. "

"Nobody is here to shame you. "

"Come on, I say. "

Philip did not wait, but sprang on his man like a tiger. Ross met hisblow, dodged, feinted; they gripped, swinging to and fro; there was astruggle, and Philip fell again with a dull thud against the ground. 

"Will you stop now?" said Ross. 

"No, no, no, " cried Philip, leaping to his feet. 

"I'll eat you up. I'm a glutton, I can tell you. " But his voicetrembled, and Philip, blind with passion, laughed. 

"You'll be hurt, " said Ross. 

"What of that?" said Philip. 

"You'll be killed. "

"I'm willing. "

Ross tried to laugh mockingly, but the hoarse gurgle choked in histhroat. He began to tremble. "This man doesn't know when he's mauled, "he muttered, and after a loud curse he stood up afresh, with a cravenand shifty look. His blows fell like scorching missiles, but Philip tookthem like a rock scoured with shingle, raining blood like water, butstanding firm. 

"What's the use?" cried Ross; "drop it. "

"I'll drop myself first, " said Philip. 

"If you won't give it up, I will, " said Ross. 

"You shan't, " said Philip. 

"Take your victory if you like. "

"I won't. "

"Say you've licked me. "

"I'll do it first, " said Philip. 

Ross laughed long and riotously, but he was trembling like a whippedcur. With a blob of foam on his lips he came up, collecting all hisstrength, and struck Philip a blow on the forehead that fell with thesound of a hammer on a coffin. 

"Are you done?" he snuffled. 

"No, by God, " cried Philip, black as ink with the burnt gorse from theground, except where the blood ran red on him. 

"This man means to kill me, " mumbled Ross. He looked round shiftily, andsaid, "I mean no harm by the girl. "

"You're a liar!" cried Philip. 

With a glance of deep malignity, Ross closed with Philip again. It wasnow a struggle of right with wrong as well as nerve with strength. The sun had set under the sea, the sally bushes were shivering in thetwilight, a flight of rooks were screaming overhead. Blows were no moreheard. Ross gripped Philip in a venomous embrace, and dragged him onto one knee. Philip rose, Ross doubled round his waist, pushing himbackward, and fell heavily on his breast, shouting with the growl of abeast, "You'll fight me, will you? Get up, get up!"

Philip did not rise, and Ross began dragging and lunging at him withbrutal ferocity, when suddenly, where he bent double, a blow fell on hisear from behind, another and another, a hand gripped his shirt collarand choked him, and a voice cried, "Let go, you brute, let go, let go. "

Ross dropped Philip and swung himself round to return the attack. 

It was the girl. "Oh, it's you, is it?" he panted. She was like a fury. "You brute, you beast, you toad, " she cried, and then threw herself overPhilip. 

He was unconscious. She lifted his head on to her lap, and, lost to allshame, to all caution, to all thought but one thought, she kissed him onthe cheek, on the lips, on the eyes, on the forehead, crying, "Philip!oh, Philip, Philip!"

Ross was shuddering beside them. "Let me look at him, " he faltered, butKate fired back with a glance like an arrow, and said, screaming like asea-gull, "If you touch him again I'll strangle you. "

Ross caught a glimpse of Philip's face, and he was terrified. Going to aturf pit, he dipped both hands in the dub, and brought some water. "Takethis, " he said, "for Heaven's sake let me bathe his head. "

He dashed the water on the pallid forehead, and then withdrew his eyes, while the girl coaxed Philip back to consciousness with fresh kisses andpleading words. 

"Is he breathing? Feel his heart. Any pulsation? Oh, God!" said Ross, "it wasn't my fault. " He looked round with wild eyes; he meditatedflight. 

"Is he better yet?"

"What's it to you, you coward?" said Kate, with a burning glance. Shewent on with her work: "Come then, dear, come, come now. "

Philip opened his eyes in a vacant stare, and rose on his elbow. ThenKate fell back from him immediately, and began to cry quietly, being allwoman now, and her moral courage gone again in an instant. 

But the moral courage of Mr. Ross came back as quickly. He began tosneer and to laugh lightly, picked up his riding-whip and strode over tohis horse. 

"Are you hurt?" asked Kate, in a low tone. 

"Is it Kate?" said Philip. 

At the sound of his voice, in that low whisper, Kate's tears camestreaming down. 

"I hope youll forgive me, " she said. "I should have taken your warning. "

She wiped his face with the loose sleeve of her dress, and then hestruggled to his feet. 

"Lean on me, Philip. "

"No, no, I can walk. "

"Do take my arm. "

"Oh no, Kate, I'm strong enough. "

"Just to please me. "

"Well--very well. "

Ross looked on with jealous rage. His horse, frightened by the fight, had twirled round and round till the reins were twisted into a knotabout the gorse stump, and as he liberated the beast he flogged it backtill it flew around him. Then he vaulted to the saddle, tugged at thecurb, and the horse reared. "Down, " he cried with an oath, and lashedbrutally at the horse's head. 

Meantime Kate, going past him with Philip on her arm, was saying softly, "Are you feeling better, Philip?"

And Ross, looking on in sulky meditation, sent a harsh laugh out of hishot throat, and said, "Oh, you can make your mind easy about _him_, ifyour other man fights for you like that you'll do. Thought you'd havethree of them, did you? Or perhaps you only wanted me for your decoy?Why don't you kiss him now, when he can know it? But he's a beauty totake care of you for somebody else. Fighting for the other one, eh?Stuff and humbug! Take him home, and the curse of Judas on the brace ofyou. "

So saying, he burst into wild, derisive laughter, flogged his horse onthe ears and the nose, shouted "Down, you brute, down!" and shot off ata gallop across the open Curragh. 

Philip and Kate stood where he had left them till he had disappeared inthe mist rising off the marshy land, and the hud of his horse's hoofscould be no more heard. Their heads were down, and though their armswere locked, their faces were turned half aside. There was silencefor some time. The girl's eyelids quivered; her look was anxious andhelpless. Then Philip said, "Let us go home, " and they began to walktogether. 

Not another word did they speak. Neither looked into the other's eyes. Their entwined arms slackened a little in a passionless asundering, yetboth felt that they must hold tight or they would fall. It was almostas if Ross's parting taunt had uncovered their hearts to each other, andrevealed to themselves their secret. They were like other children ofthe garden of Eden, driven out and stripped naked. 

At the bridge they met Cæsar, Grannie, Nancy Joe, and half theinhabitants of Sulby, abroad with lanterns in search of them. 

"They're here, " cried Cæsar. "You've chastised him, then! You'd baithis head off, I'll go bail. And I believe enough you'll be forgiven, sir. Yonder blow was almost bitterer than flesh can bear. Before my daysof grace--but, praise the Lord for His restraining hand, the very minutemy anger was up He crippled me in the hip with rheumatics. But what'sthis?" holding the lantern over his head; "there's blood on your face, sir?"

"A scratch--it's nothing, " said Philip. 

"It's the women that's in every mischief, " said Cæsar. 

"Lord bless me, aren't the women as good as the men?" said Nancy. 

"H'm, " said Cæsar. "We're told that man was made a little lower than theangels, but about women we're just left to our own conclusions. "

"Scripture has nothing to do with Ross Christian, father, " said Grannie. 

"The Lord forbid it, " said Cæsar. "What can you get from a cat but hisskin? And doesn't the man come from Christian Ballawhaine!"

"If it comes to that, though, haven't we all come from Adam?" saidGrannie. 

"Yes; and from Eve too, more's the pity, " said Cæsar. 

VI. 

For some time thereafter Philip went no more to Sulby. He had asufficient excuse. His profession made demand of all his energies. Whenhe was not at work in Douglas he was expected to be at home with hisaunt at Ballure. But neither absence nor the lapse of years servedto lift him out of the reach of temptation. He had one besettingprovocation to remembrance--one duty which forbade him to forgetKate--his pledge to Pete, his office as _Dooiney Molla_. Had he notvowed to keep guard over the girl? He must do it. The trust was a sacredone. 

Philip found a way out of his difficulty. The post was an impersonal andincorruptible go-between, so he wrote frequently. Sometimes he had newsto send, for, to avoid the espionage of Cæsar, intelligence of Pete camethrough him; occasionally he had love-letters to enclose; now and thenhe had presents to pass on. When such necessity did not arise, he foundit agreeable to keep up the current of correspondence. At Christmas hesent Christmas cards, on Midsummer Day a bunch of moss roses, and evenon St. Valentine's Day a valentine. All this was in discharge of hisduty, and everything he did was done in the name of Pete. He persuadedhimself that he sank his own self absolutely. Having denied his eyes thevery sight of the girl's face, he stood erect in the belief that he wasa true and loyal friend. 

Kate was less afraid and less ashamed. She took the presents from Peteand wore them for Philip. In her secret heart she thought no shame ofthis. The years gave her a larger flow of life, and made out of thebewitching girl a splendid woman, brought up to the full estate ofmaidenly beauty. 

This change wrought by time on her bodily form caused the past to seemto her a very long way off. Something had occurred that made her adifferent being. She was like the elder sister of that laughing girlwho had known Pete. To think of that little sister as having a kind ofcontrol over her was impossible. Kate never did think of it. 

Nevertheless, she held her tongue. Her people were taken in by theepisode of Ross Christian. According to their view, Kate loved the manand still longed for him, and that was why she never talked of Pete. Philip was disgusted with her unfaithfulness to his friend, and that wasthe reason of his absence. She never talked of Philip either, but they, on their part, talked of him perpetually, and fed her secret passionwith his praises. Thus for three years these two were like two prisonersin neighbouring cells, very close and yet very far apart, able to heareach other's voices, yet never to see each other's faces, yearning tocome together and to touch, but unable to do so because of the wall thatstood between. 

Since the fight, Cæsar had removed her from all duties of the inn, andone day in the spring she was in the gable house peeling rushes to maketallow candles when Kelly, the postman, passed by the porch, where NancyJoe was cleaning the candle-irons. 

"Heard the newses, Nancy?" said Kelly. "Mr. Philip Christian is let offtwo years' time and called to the bar. "

Nancy looked grave. "I'm sure the young gentleman is that quiet andstuddy, " she said. "What are they doing on him?"

"Only making him a full advocate, woman, " said Kelly. 

"You don't say?" said Nancy. 

"He passed his examination before the Govenar's man yesterday. "

"Aw, there now!"

"I took the letter to Ballure this evening. "

"It's like you would, Mr. Kelly. That's the boy for you. I'm alwayssaying it. 'Deed I am, though, but there's ones here that won't have itat all, at all. "

"Miss Kate, you mane? We know the raison. He's lumps in her porridge, woman. Good-day to you, Nancy. "

"Yes, it's doing a nice day enough, Mr. Kelly, " said Nancy, and thepostman passed on. 

Kate came gliding out with a brush in her hand. "What was the postmansaying?"

"That--Mr. --Philip--Christian--has been passing--for an advocate, " saidNancy deliberately. 

Kate's eyes glistened, and her lips quivered with delight; but she onlysaid, with an air of indifference, "Was that all his news, then?"

"All? D'ye say all?" said Nancy, digging away at the candle-irons. "Listen to the girl! And him that good to her while her promist man'saway!"

Kate shelled her rush, and said, with a sigh and a sly look, "I'm afraidyou think a deal too much of him, Nancy. "

"Then I'll be making mends, " said Nancy, "for some that's thinking adale too little. "

"I'm quite at a loss to know what you see in him, " said Kate. 

"Now, you don't say!" said Nancy with scorching irony. Then, bangingher irons, she added, "I'm not much of a woman for a man myself. They'reonly poor helpless creatures anyway, and I don't approve of them. Butif I was for putting up with one of the sort, he wouldn't have legs andarms like a dolly, and a face like curds and whey, and coat and trousersthat loud you can hear them coming up the street. "

With this parting shot at Ross Christian, Nancy flung into the house, thinking she had given Kate a dressing that she would never forget. Kate was radiant. Such abuse was honey on her lips, such scoldingswere joy-bells in her ears. She took silent delight in provoking theseattacks. They served her turn both ways, bringing her delicious joy atthe praise of Philip, and at the same time preserving her secret. 

VII. 

Latter that day Cæsar came in from the mill with the startlingintelligence that Philip was riding up on the highroad. 

"Goodness mercy!" cried Nancy, and she fled away to wash her face. Grannie with a turn of the hand settled her cap, and smoothed her greyhair under it. Kate herself had disappeared like a flash of light; butas Philip dismounted at the gate, looking taller, and older, and paler, and more serious, but raising his cap from his fair head and smiling asmile like sunshine, she was coming leisurely out of the porch with abewitching hat over her wavy black hair and a hand-basket over her arm. 

Then there was a little start of surprise and recognition, a short catchof quick breath and nervous salutations. 

"I'm going round to the nests, " she said. "I suppose you'll step in tosee mother. "

"Time enough for that, " said Philip. "May I help you with the eggsfirst? Besides, I've something to tell you. "

"Is it that you're 'admitted?'" said Kate. 

"That's nothing, " said Philip. "Only the A B C, you know. Getting readyto begin, so to speak. "

They walked round to the stackyard, and he tied up his horse and gave ithay. Then, while they poked about for eggs on hands and knees among thestraw, under the stacks and between the bushes, she said she hoped hewould have success, and he answered that success was more than a hope tohim now--it was a sort of superstition. She did not understand this, butlooked up at him from all fours with brightening eyes, and said, "What aglorious thing it is to be a man!"

"Is it?" said Philip. "And yet I remember somebody who said she wasn'tsorry to be a girl. "

"Did I?" said Kate. "But that was long ago. And _I_ remember somebodyelse who pretended he was glad I was. "

"That was long ago too, " said Philip, and both laughed nervously. 

"What strange things girls are--and boys!" said Kate with a matronlysigh, burying her face in a nest where a hen was clucking and two downychicks were peeping from her wing. 

They went through to the orchard, where the trees were breaking intoeager blossoms. 

"I've another letter for you from Pete, " said Philip. 

"So?" said Kate. 

"Here it is, " said Philip. 

"Won't you read it?" said Kate. 

"But it's yours; surely a girl doesn't want anybody else----"

"Ah! but you're different, though; you know everything--andbesides--read it aloud, Philip. "

With her basket of eggs on one arm, and the other hand on theoutstretched arm of an apple-tree, she waited while he read:

"Dearest Kitty, --How's yourself, darling, and how's Philip, andhow's Grannie? I'm getting on tremendous. They're calling me Captainnow--Capt'n Pete. Sort of overseer at the Diamond Mines outsideKimberley. Regular gentleman's life and no mistake. Nothing to do butsit under a monstrous big umbrella, with a paper in your fist, like achairman, while twenty Kaffirs do the work. Just a bit of a tusslenow and then to keep you from dropping off. When a Kaffir turns up adiamond, you grab it, and mark it on the time-sheet against his name. They've got their own outlandish ones, but we always christen themourselves--Sixpence, Seven Waistcoats, Shoulder-of-Mutton, TwopennyTrotter--anything you like. When a Kaffir strikes a diamond, he gets acommission, and so does his overseer. I'm afraid I'm going to be gettingterrible rich soon. Tell the old man I'll be buying that har-monia yet. They are a knowing lot, though, and if they can get up a dust to smugglea stone when you're not looking, they will. Then they sell it to theblackleg Boers, and you've got to raise your voice like an advocate toget it back somehow. But the Boers can't do no harm to you with theirfists at all--it's playing. They're a dirty lot, wonderful straight likesome of the lazy Manx ones, especially Black Tom. When they see us downat the river washing, they say, 'What dirty people the English must beif they have to wash themselves three times a day--we only do it once aweek. ' When a Kaffir steals a stone we usually court-martial him, but Idon't hold with it, as the floggers on the compound can't be trusted;so I always lick my own niggers, being more kinder, and if anybody doesanything against me, they lynch him. "

Kate made a little patient sigh and turned away her head, while Philip, in a halting voice, went on--

"Darling Kitty, I am longing mortal for a sight of your sweet face. Whenthe night comes, and I'll be lying in the huts--boards on the ground, and good canvas, and everything comfortable--says I to the boys, 'Shutyour faces, men, and let a poor chap sleep;' but they never twig thedarkness of my meaning. I'll only be wanting a bit of quiet for thinkingof. . . . With the stars atwinkling down. . . . She's looking at that one. . . . Shine on my angel. . . . "

"Really, Kate, " faltered Philip, "I can't----"

"Give it to me, then, " said Kate. 

She was tugging with her trembling hand at the arm of the apple-tree, and the white blossom was raining over her from the rowels of the thinboughs overhead, like silver fish falling from the herring-net. Takingthe letter, she glanced over the close--

"darlin Kirry how is the mackral this saison and is the millin doingmiddling and I wonder is the hens all layin and is the grace gone outof the mares leg yet and how is the owl man and is he still playin hangwith the texes. Theer is a big chap heer that is strait like him he hathswallowed the owl Book and cant help bring it up agen but dear Kirry nomore at present i axpect to be Home sune bogh, to see u all tho I dontno azactly With luv your luving swateart peat. "

When she had finished the letter, she turned it over in her fingers, andgave another patient little sigh. "You didn't read it as it was spelled, Philip, " she said. 

"What odds if the spelling is uncertain when the love is as sure asthat?" said Philip. 

"Did he write it himself, think you?" said Kate. 

"He signed it, anyway, and no doubt indited it too; but perhaps one ofthe Gills boys held the pen. "

She coloured a little, slipped the letter down her dress into herpocket, and looked ashamed. 

VIII. 

This shame at Pete's letter tormented Philip, and he stayed away again. His absence stimulated Kate and made Philip himself ashamed. She wasvexed with him that he did not see that all this matter of Pete wasfoolishness. It was absurd to think of a girl marrying a man whom shehad known when he was a boy. But Philip was trying to keep the bondsacred, and so she made her terms with it. She used Pete as a link tohold Philip. 

After the lapse of some months, in which Philip had not been seen atSulby, she wrote him a letter. It was to say how anxious she had been atthe length of time since she had last heard from Pete, and to ask if hehad any news to relieve her fears. The poor little lie was written ina trembling hand which shook honestly enough, but from the torment ofother feelings. 

Philip answered the letter in person. Something had been speaking to himday and night, like the humming of a top, finding him pretexts on whichto go; but now he had to make excuses for staying so long away. It wasevening. Kate was milking, and he went out to her in the cowhouse. 

"We began to think we were to see no more of you, " she said, over therattle of the milk in the pail. 

"I've--I've been ill, " said Philip. 

The rattle died to a thin hiss. "Very ill?" she asked. 

"Well, no--not seriously, " he answered. 

"I never once thought of that, " she said. "Something ought to have toldme. I've been reproaching you, too. "

Philip felt shame of his subterfuge, but yet more ashamed of the truth;so he leaned against the door and watched in silence. The smell of hayfloated down from the loft, and the odour of the cow's breath came ingusts as she turned her face about. Kate sat on the milking-stool closeby the ewer, and her head, on which she wore a sun-bonnet, she leanedagainst the cow's side. 

"No news of Pete, then? No?" she said. 

"No, " said Philip. 

Kate dug her head deeper in the cow, and muttered, "Dear Pete! Sosimple, so natural. "

"He is, " said Philip. 

"So good-hearted, too. "

"Yes. "

"And such a manly fellow--any girl might like him, " said Kate. 

"Indeed, yes, " said Philip. 

There was silence again, and two pigs which had been snoring on themanure heap outside began to snort their way home. Kate turned her headso that the crown of the sun-bonnet was toward Phillip, and said--

"Oh, dear! Can there be anything so terrible as marrying somebody youdon't care for?"

"Nothing so bad, " said Philip. 

The mouth of the sun-bonnet came round. "Yes, there's one thing worse, Philip. "

"No?"

"Not having married somebody you do, " said Kate, and the milk rattledlike hail. 

In the straw behind. Kate there was a tailless Manx cat with threetailed kittens, and Philip began to play with them. Being back to backwith Kate, he could keep his countenance. 

"This old Horney is terrible for switching, " said Kate, over hershoulder. "Don't you think you could hold her tail?"

That brought them face to face again. "It's so sweet to have some one totalk to about Pete, " said Kate. 

"Yes?"

"I don't know how I could bear his long absence but for that. "

"Are you longing so much, Kate?"

"Oh, no, not longing--not to say longing. Only you can't think what itis to be. . . Have you never been yourself, Philip?"

"What?" "Hold it tight. . . In love? No?"

"Well, " said Philip, speaking at the crown of the sun-bonnet. "Ha! ha!well, not properly perhaps--I don't--I can hardly say, Kate. "

"There! You've let it go, after all, and she's covered me with the milk!But I'm finished, anyway. "

Kate was suddenly radiant. She kissed Horney, and hugged her calf in theadjoining stall; and as they crossed the haggard, Philip carrying thepail, she scattered great handfuls of oats to a cock and his two hens asthey cackled their way to roost. 

"You'll be sure to come again soon, Philip, eh? It's so sweet to havesome one to remind me of----" but Pete's name choked her now. "Not thatI'm likely to forget him--now is that likely? But it's such a weary timeto be left alone, and a girl gets longing. Did I now? Give me the milk, then. Did I say I wasn't? Well, you can't expect a girl to be _always_reasonable. "

"Good-bye, Kate. "

"Yes, you had better go now--good-bye. "

Philip went away in pain, yet in delight, with a delicious thrill, anda sense of stifling hypocrisy. He had felt like a fool. Kate must havethought him one. But better she should think him a fool than a traitor. It was all his fault. Only for him the girl would have been walled roundby her love for Pete. He would come no more. 

IX. 

Philip held to his resolution for three months, and grew thin andpale. Then another letter came from Pete--a letter for himself, and hewondered what to do with it. To send it by post, pretending to be illagain, would be hypocrisy he could not support. He took it. 

The family were all at home. Nancy had just finished a noisy churning, and Kate was in the dairy, weighing the butter into pounds and stampingit. Philip read the letter in a loud voice to the old people in thekitchen, and the soft thumping and watery swishing ceased in the dampplace adjoining. Pete was in high feather. He had made a mortal lotof money lately, and was for coming home quickly. Couldn't say exactlywhen, for some rascally blackleg Boers, who had been corrupting hisKaffirs and slipped up country with a pile of stones, had first to befollowed and caught. The job wouldn't take long though, and they mightexpect to see him back within a twelvemonth, with enough in his pocketto drive away the devil and the coroner anyway. 

"Bould fellow!" said Cæsar. 

"Aw, deed on Pete!" said Grannie. 

"Now, if it wasn't for that Ross----" said Nancy. 

Philip went into the dairy, where Kate was now skimming the cream of thelast night's milking. He was sorry there was nothing but a message forher this time. Had she answered Pete's former letters? No, she had not. 

"I must be writing soon, I suppose, " she said, blowing the yellowsurface. "But I wish--_puff_--I could have something to tell him--_puff, puff_--about you. "

"About me, Kate?"

"Something sweet, I mean "--_puff, puff, puff_. 

She shot a sly look upward. "Aren't you sure yet? Can't say still? Notproperly? No?"

Philip pretended not to understand. Kate's laugh echoed in the emptycream tins. "How you want people to say things!"

"No, really--" began Philip. 

"I've always heard that the girls of Douglas are so beautiful. You mustsee so many now. Oh, it would be delicious to write a long story toPete. Where you met--in church, naturally. What she's like--fair, ofcourse. And--and all about it, you know. "

"That's a story you will never tell to Pete, Kate, " said Philip. 

"No, never, " said Kate quite as light, and this being just what shewished to hear, she added mournfully. "Don't say that, though. You can'tthink what pleasure you are denying me, and yourself, too. Take somepoor girl to your heart, Philip. You don't know how happy it will makeyou. "

"Are _you_ so happy, then, Kate?"

Kate laughed merrily. "Why, what do _you_ think?"

"Dear old Pete--how happy _he_ should be, " said Philip. 

Kate began to hate the very name of Pete. She grew angry with Philipalso. Why couldn't he guess? Concealment was eating her heart out. The next time she saw Philip, he passed her in the market-place on themarket-day, as she stood by the tipped-up gig, selling her butter. Therewas a chatter of girls all round as he bowed and went on. This vexedher, and she sold out at a penny a pound less, got the horse from the"Saddle, " and drove home early. 

On the way to Sulby she overtook Philip and drew up. He was walking toKirk Michael to visit the old Deemster, who was ill. Would he not takea lift? He hesitated, half declined, and then got into the gig. As shesettled herself comfortably after this change, he trod on the edge ofher dress. At that he drew quickly away as if he had trodden on herfoot. 

She laughed, but she was vexed; and when he got down at "The ManxFairy, " saying he might call on his way back in the evening, she had nodoubt Grannie would be glad to see him. 

The girls of the market-place were standing by the mill-pond, work done, and arms crossed under their aprons, twittering like the pairing birdsabout them in the trees, when Philip returned home by Sulby. He saw Katecoming down the glen road, driving two heifers with a cushag for switchand flashing its gold at them in the horizontal gleams of sunset. Shehad recovered her good-humour, and was swinging along, singing merrysnatches as she came--all life, all girlish blood and beauty. 

She pretended not to see him until they were abreast, and the heiferswere going into the yard. Then she said, "I've written and told him. "

"What?" said Philip. 

"That you say you are a confirmed old bachelor. "

"That _I_ say so?"

"Yes; and that _I_ say you are so distant with a girl that I don'tbelieve you have a heart at all. "

"You don't?"

"No; and that he couldn't have left anybody better to look after meall these years, because you haven't eyes or ears or a thought for anyliving creature except himself. "

"You've never written that to Pete?" said Philip. 

"Haven't I, though?" said Kate, and she tripped off on tiptoe. 

He tripped after her. She ran into the yard. He ran also. She openedthe gate of the orchard, slipped through, and made for the door of thedairy, and there he caught her by the waist. 

"Never, you rogue! Say no, say no!" he panted. 

"No, " she whispered, turning up her lips for a kiss. 

X. 

Grannie saw nothing of Philip that night. He went home tingling withpleasure, and yet overwhelmed with shame. Sometimes he told himself thathe was no better than a Judas, and sometimes that Pete might nevercome back. The second thought rose oftenest. It crossed his mind like aghostly gleam. He half wished to believe it. When he counted up the oddsagainst Pete's return, his pulse beat quick. Then he hated himself. Hewas in torment. But under his distracted heart there was a little chickof frightened joy, like a young cuckoo hatched in a wagtail's nest. 

After many days, in which no further news had come from Pete, Katereceived this brief letter from Philip:

"I am coming to see you this evening. Have something of grave importanceto tell you. "

It was afternoon, and Kate ran upstairs, hurried on her best frock, andcame down to help Nancy to gather apples in the orchard. Black Tomwas there, new thatching the back of the house, and Cæsar was makingsugganes (straw rope) for him with a twister. There was a soft feel ofautumn in the air, pigeons were cooing in the ledges of the mill-housegable, and everything was luminous and tranquil. Kate had climbed tothe fork of a tree, and was throwing apples into Nancy's apron, when theorchard gate clicked, and she uttered a little cry of joy unawares asPhilip entered. To cover this, she pretended to be falling, and he ranto help her. 

"Oh, it's nothing, " she said. "I thought the bough was breaking. So it'syou!" Then, in a clear voice, "Is your apron full, Nancy? Yes? Bringanother basket, then; the white one with the handles. Did you come Laxeyway by the coach? Bode over, eh? Nancy, do you really think we'll havesugar enough for all these Keswicks?"

"Good evenin', Mr. Christian, sir, " said Cæsar. And Black Tom, from theladder on the roof, nodded his wide straw brim. 

"Thatching afresh, Mr. Cregeen?"

"Covering it up, sir; covering it up. May the Lord cover our sins uplikewise, or how shall we cover ourselves from His avenging wrath?"

"How vexing!" said Kate, from the tree. "Half of them get bruised, and will be good for nothing but preserving. They drop at the firsttouch--so ripe, you see. "

"May we all be ripe for the great gathering, and good for preserving, too, " said Cæsar. "Look at that big one, now--knotted like ablacksmith's muscles, but it'll go rotten as fast as the least lil oneof the lot. It's taiching us a lesson, sir, that we all do fall--bigmountains as aisy as lil cocks. This world is changeable. "

Philip was not listening, but looking up at Kate, with a face ofhalf-frightened tenderness. 

"Do you know, " she said, "I was afraid you must be ill again--yourapron, Nancy--that was foolish, wasn't it?"

"No; _I_ have been well enough, " said Philip. 

Kate looked at him. "Is it somebody else?" she said. "I got yourletter. "

"Can I help?" said Philip. "What is it? I'm sure there's something, "said Kate. 

"Set your foot here, " he said. 

"Let me down, I feel giddy. "

"Slowly, then. Hold by this one. Give me your hand. "

Their fingers touched, and communicated fire. 

"Why don't you tell me?" she said, with a passionate tightening of hishand. "It's bad news, isn't it? Are you going away?"

"Somebody who went away will never come back, " he answered. 

"Is it--Pete?"

"Poor Pete is gone, " said Philip. 

Her throat fluttered. "Gone?"

"He is dead, " said Philip. 

She tottered, but drew herself up quickly. "Stop!" she said. "Let memake sure. Is there no mistake? Is it true?"

"Too true. "

"I can bear the truth now--but afterwards--to-night--tomorrow--in themorning it might kill me if----"

"Pete is dead, Kate; he died at Kimberley. "

"Philip!"

She burst into a wild fit of hysterical weeping, and buried her face hishis breast. 

He put his arms about her, thinking to soothe her. "There! be brave!Hold yourself firm. It's a terrible blow. I was too sudden. My poorgirl. My brave girl!"

She clung to him like a terrified child; the tears came from under hereyelids tightly closed; the flood-gates of four years' reserve went downin a moment, and she kissed him on the lips. 

And, throbbing with bliss and a blessed relief from four years hypocrisyand treason, he kissed her back, and they smiled through their tears. 

Poor Pete! Poor Pete! Poor Pete!

XI. 

At the sound of Kate's crying, Cæsar had thrown away the twister andcome close to listen, and Black Tom had dropped from the thatch. Nancyran back with the basket, and Grannie came hurrying from the house. 

Cæsar lifted both hands solemnly. "Now, you that are women, controlyourselves, " said he, "and listen while I spake. Peter Quilliam's deadin Kimberley. "

"Goodness mercy!" cried Grannie. 

"Lord alive!" cried Nancy. 

And the two women went indoors, threw their aprons over their heads, androcked themselves in their seats. 

"Aw boy veen! boy veen!"

Kate came tottering in, ghostly white, and the women fell to comfortingher, thereby making more tumult with their soothing moans than Kate withher crying. 

"Chut'! Put a good face on it, woman, " said Black Tom. "A whippa of agirl like you will be getting another soon, and singing, 'Hail, SmilingMorn!' with the best. "

"Shame on you, man. Are you as drunk as Mackillya?" cried Nancy. "Yourown grandson, too!"

"Never another for Kate, anyway, " wept Grannie. "Aw boy veen, aw boyveen!"

"Maybe he had another himself, who knows?" said Black Tom. "Out of sightout of mind, and these sailor lads have a rag on lots of bushes. "

Kate was helped to her room upstairs, Philip sat down in the kitchen, the news spread like a curragh fire, and the barroom was full in fiveminutes. In the midst of all stood Cæsar, solemn and expansive. 

"He turned his herring yonder night when he left goodbye to the four ofus, " he said. "My father did the same the night he was lost running rumfor Whitehaven, and I've never seen a man do it and live. "

"It's forgot at you father, " wept Grannie. "It was Mr. Philip thatturned it. Aw boy veen! boy veen!"

"How could that be, mother?" said Cæsar. "Mr. Philip isn't dead. "

But Grannie heard no more. She was busy with the consolations ofhalf-a-dozen women who were gathered around her. "I dreamt it thenight he sailed. I heard a cry, most terrible, I did. 'Father, ' says I, 'what's that?' It was the same as if I had seen the poor boy coming tohis end un-timeously. And I didn't get a wink on the night. "

"Well, he has gone to the rest that remaineth, " said Cæsar. "The grassperisheth, and the worm devoureth, and well all be in heaven with himsoon. "

"God forbid, father; don't talk of such dreadful things, " said Grannie, napping her apron. "Do you say his mother, ma'am? Is she in life? No, but under the sod, I don't know the years. Information of the lungs, poor thing. "

"I've known him since I was a slip of a boy, " said one. "It was whip-toptime--no, it was peg-top time----"

"I saw him the morning he sailed, " said another. "I was standing_so_----"

"Mr. Christian saw him last, " moaned Grannie, and the people in thebar-room peered through at Philip with awe. 

"I felt like a father for the lad myself, " said Cæsar, "he was alwaysmy white-headed boy, and I stuck to him with life. He desarved it, too. Maybe his birth was a bit mischancy, but what's the ould saying, 'Don'ttell me what I was, tell me what I am. ' And Pete was that civil with thetongue--a civiller young man never was. "

Black Tom _tsht_ and spat. "Why, you were shouting out of mercy at thelad, and knocking him about like putty. He wouldn't get lave to livewith you, and that's why he went away. "

"You're bad to forget, Thomas--I've always noticed it, " said Cæsar. 

"You'll be putting the bell about, and praiching his funeral, eh, Cæsar?" said somebody. 

"'Deed, yes, man, Sabbath first, " said Cæsar. 

"That's impossible, father, " said Grannie. "How's the girl to have herblack ready?"

"Sunday week, then, or Sunday fortnight, or the Sunday after the Melliah(harvest-home), " said Cæsar; "the crops are waiting for saving, but adead man is past it. Oh, I'll be faithful, I'll give it them straight, it's a time for spaking like a dying man to dying men; I'll take a tex'that'll be a lesson and a warning, 'Ho, every one that thirsteth----"

Black Tom _tsht_ and spat again. "I wouldn't, Cæsar; they'll thinkyou're going to trate them, " he muttered. 

Philip was asked for particulars, and he brought out a letter. JonaiqueJelly, John the Clerk, and Johnny the Constable had come in by thistime. "Read it, Jonaique, " said Cæsar. 

"A clane pipe first, " said Black Tom. "Aren't you smook-ing on it, Cæsar? And isn't there a croppa of rum anywhere? No! Not so much asa plate of crackers and a drop of tay going? Is it to be a totaller'sfuneral then?"

"This is no time for feasting to the refreshment of our carnal bodies, "said Cæsar severely. "It's a time for praise and prayer. "

"I'll pud up a word or dwo, " said the Constable meekly. 

"Masther Niplightly, " said Cæsar, "don't be too ready to show your gift. It's vanity. I'll engage in prayer myself. " And Cæsar offered praise forall departed in faith and fear. 

"Cæsar is nod a man of a liberal spirit, bud he is powerful in prayer, dough, " whispered the Constable. 

"He isn't a prodigal son, if that's what you mane, " said Black Tom. "Never seen him shouting after anybody with a pint, anyway. "

"Now for the letter, Jonaique, " said Cæsar. 

It was from one of the Gills' boys who had sailed with Pete, andhitherto served as his letter-writer. 

"'Respected Sir, '" read Jonaique, "'with pain and sorrow I write thesefew lines, to tell you of poor Peter Quilliam----'"

"Aw boy veen, boy veen!" broke in Grannie. 

"'Knowing you were his friend in the old island, and the one he talkedof mostly, except the girl----'"

"Boy ve----"

"Hush, woman. "

"'He made good money out here, at the diamond mines----'"

"Never a yellow sovereign he sent to me, then, " said Black Tom, "northe full of your fist of ha'pence either. What's the use of gettinggrand-childers?"

Cæsar waved his hand. "Go on, Jonaique. It's bad when the deceitfulnessof riches is getting the better of a man. "

"Where was I? Oh, 'good money ------' 'Yet he was never for taking joyin it----'"

"More money, more cares, " muttered Cæsar. 

"'But talking and talking, and scheming for ever, for coming home. '"

"Ah! home is a full cup, " moaned Grannie. "It was a show the way thatlad was fond of it. 'Give me a plate of mate, bolstered with cabbage, and what do I care for their buns and sarves, Grannie, ' says he. Aw, boyveen, boy bogh!"

"What does the nightingale care for a golden cage when he can get atwig?" said Cæsar. 

"Is the boy's chest home yet?" asked John the Clerk. 

"There's something about it here, " said Jonaique, "if people would onlylet a man get on. "

"It's mine, " said Black Tom. 

"We'll think of that by-and-bye, " said Cæsar, waving his hand toJonaique. 

"'He had packed his chest for going, when four blacklegs, who had beenhanging round the compound, tempting and plaguing the Kaffirs, made offwith a bag of stones. Desperate gang, too; so nobody was running to besent after them. But poor Peter, being always a bit bull-necked, wasup to the office in a jiffy, and Might he go? And off in chase in theeverin' with the twenty Kaffirs of his own company to help him--not muchof a lot neither, and suspected of dealing diamonds with the blacklegstimes; but Peter always swore their love for him was getting thicker andstronger every day like sour cream. "The captain's love has been theirtheme, and shall be till they die, " said Peter. '"

"He drank up the Word like a thirsty land the rain, " said Cæsar. "PeterQuilliam and I had mortal joy of each other. 'Good-bye, father, ' sayshe, and he was shaking me by the hand ter'ble. But go on, Jonaique. "

"'That was four months ago, and a fortnight since eight of his Kaffirscame back. '"

"Aw dear!" "Well, well!" "Lord-a-massy!" "Hush!"

"'They overtook the blacklegs far up country, and Peter tackled them. But they had Winchester repeaters, and Peter's boys didn't know themuzzle of a gun from the neck of a gin-bottle. So the big man of thegang cocked his piece at Peter, and shouted at him like a high bailiff, "You'd better go back the way you came. " "Not immajetly, " said Peter, and stretched him. Then there was smoke like a smithy on hooping-day, and "To your heels, boys, " shouted Peter. And if the boys couldn't equalPeter with their hands, they could bate him with their toes, and thelast they heard of him he was racing behind them with the shots of theblacklegs behind him, and shouting mortal, "Oh, oh! All up! I'm done!Home and tell, boys! Oh, oh. "'"

"Rejoice not against me, O mine enemy. When I fall I shall arise. Selah, " said Cæsar. 

Amid the tumult of moans which followed the reading, Philip, sittingwith head on his hand by the ingle, grew hot and cold with the thoughtthat after all there was no actual certainty that Pete was dead. Nobodyhad seen him die, nobody had buried him; the story of the returnedKaffirs might be a lie to cover their desertion of Pete, their betrayalof him, or their secret league with the thieving Boers. At one awfulmoment Philip asked himself how he had ever believed the letter. Perhapshe had _wanted_ to believe it. 

Nancy Joe touched him on the shoulder. "Kate is waiting for a wordwith you alone, sir, " she said, and Philip crossed the kitchen intothe little parlour beyond, chill with china and bowls of sea-eggs andstuffed sea-birds. 

"He's feeling it bad, " said Nancy. 

"Never been the same since Pete went to the Cape, " said Cæsar. 

"I don't know for sure what good lads are going to it for, " moanedGrannie. "And calling it Good Hope of all names! Died of a bullet in hishead, too, aw dear, aw dear! Discussion of the brain it's like. And lookat them black-heads too, as naked as my hand, I'll go bail. I hate thenasty dirts! Cæsar may talk of one flesh and brethren and all to that, but for my part I'm not used of black brothers, and as for black angelsin heaven, it's ridiculous. "

"When you're all done talking I'll finish the letter, " said Jonaique. 

"They can't help it, Mr. Jelly, the women can't help it, " said Cæsar. 

"'Respected Sir, I must now close, but we are strapping up the chest ofthe deceased, just as he left it, and sending it to catch the steamer, the _Johannesburg_, leaving Cape Town Wednesday fortnight----'"

"Hm! Johannesburg. I'll meet her at the quay--it's my duty to meet her, "said Cæsar. 

"And I'll board her in the bay, " shouted Black Tom. 

"Thomas Quilliam, " said Cæsar, "it's borne in on my spirit that thedevil of greed is let loose on you. "

"Cæsar Cregeen, don't make a nose of wax of me, " bawled Tom, "and don'tthink because you're praiching a bit that religion is going to die withyou. Your head's swelling tre-menjous, and-you won't be able to sleepsoon without somebody to tickle your feet. You'll be forgiving sinsnext, and taking money for absolution, and these ones will be makinga pope of you and paying you pence. Pope Cæsar, the publican, in hischapel hat and white choker! But that chiss is mine, and if there's lawin the land I'll have it. "

With that Black Tom swept out of the house, and Cæsar wiped his eyes. 

"No use smoothing a thistle, Mr. Cregeen, " said Jonaique soothingly. 

"I've a conscience void of offence. " said Cæsar. "I can only follow thespirit's leading. But when Belial----"

He was interrupted by a most mournful cry of "Look here! Aw, look, then, look!"

Nancy was coming out of the back-kitchen with something between thetips of her fingers. It was a pair of old shoes, covered with dirt andcobwebs. 

"These were his wearing boots, " she said, and she put them on thecounter. 

"Dear heart, yes, the very ones, " said Grannie. "Poor boy, they'd move aheart of stone to see them. Something to remember him by, anyway. Manya mile his feet walked in them; but they're resting now in Abraham'sbosom. "

Then Cæsar's voice rose loud over the doleful tones around the counter. "'Vital Spark of Heavenly Flame'--raise it, Mr. Niplightly. Pity wehaven't Peter and his fiddle here--he played with life. "

"I can'd sing to-day, having a cold, bud I'll whisle id, " said theConstable. 

"Pitch it in altoes, then, " said Cæsar. "I'm a bit of a base myself, butnot near so base as Peter. "

Meanwhile a little drama of serious interest was going on upstairs. There sat Kate before the looking-glass, with flushed cheeks andquivering mouth. The low drone of many voices came to her through thefloor. Then a dull silence and one voice, and Nancy Joe coming and goingbetween the kitchen and bedroom. 

"What are they doing now, Nancy?" said Kate. 

"First one's praying, and then another's praying, " said Nancy. "Lord-a-massy, thinks I, it'll be my turn next, and what'll I say?"

"Where's Mr. Christian?"

"Gone into the parlour. I whispered him you wanted him alone. "

"You never said that, Nancy, " said Kate, at Nancy's reflection in theglass. 

"Well, it popped out, " said Nancy. 

Kate went down, with a look of softened sorrow, and Philip, withoutlifting his eyes, began bemoaning Pete. They would never know hislike--so simple, so true, so brave; never, never. 

He was fighting against his shame at first seeing the girl after thatkiss, which seemed to him now like treason at the mouth of a grave. 

But, with the magic of a woman's art, Kate consoled him. He hadone great comfort--he had been a loyal friend; such fidelity, suchconstancy, such affection, forgetting the difference of place, ofeducation--everything. 

Philip looked up at last, and there was the lovely face with its beamingeyes. He turned to go, and she said, softly, "How we shall miss you!"

"Why so?" said Philip. 

"We can't expect to see you so often now--now that you've not the samereason for coming. "

"I'll be here on Sunday, " said Philip. 

"Then you don't intend to desert us yet--not just yet, Philip?"

"Never!" said Philip. 

"Well, good-night! Not that way--not by the porch. Good-night!"

As Philip went down the road in the darkness, he heard the words of thehymn that was being sung inside:

"Thy glory why didst Thou enshrine In such a clod of earth as mine, Andwrap Thee in my clay. "

XII. 

At that moment day was breaking over the plains of the Transvaal. Thebare Veldt was opening out as the darkness receded, depth on depth, like the surface of an unbroken sea. Not a bush, not a path, only a fewlog-houses at long distances and wooden beacons like gibbets to definethe Boer farms. No sound in the transparent air, no cloud in theunveiling sky; just the night creeping off in silence as if in fear ofawakening the sleeping morning. 

Across the soulless immensity a covered waggon toiled along with fourhorses rattling their link chains, and a lad sideways on the shaftdangling his legs, twiddling the rope reins and whistling. Inside thewaggon, under a little window with its bit of muslin curtain, a man layin the agony of a bullet-wound in his side, and an old Boer and awoman stood beside him. He was lying hard on the place of his pain andrambling in delirium. 

"See, boys? Don't you see them?"

"See what, my lad?" said the Boer simply, and he looked through thewaggon window. 

"There's the head-gear of the mines. Look! the iron roofs areglittering. And yonder's the mine tailings. We'll be back in a jiffy. Ataste of the whip, boys, and away!"

Untouched by visions, the old Boer could see nothing. 

"What does he see, wife, think you?"

"What can he see, stupid, with his face in the pillow like that?"

With the rushing of blood in his ears the sick man called out again:

"Listen! Don't you hear it? That's the noise of the batteries. Whip up, and away! Away!" and he tore at the fringe of the blanket covering himwith his unconscious fingers. 

"Poor boy! he's eager to get to the coast But will he live to coveranother morgen, think you?"

"God knows, Jan--God only knows. "

And the Veldt was very wide, and the sea and its ships were far away, and over the weary stretch of grass, and rock, and sand, there wasnothing on the horizon between desolate land and dominating sky but awaste looking like a chaos of purple and green, where no bird ever sangand no man ever lived, and God Himself was not. 

XIII. 

"She loves me! She loves me! She loves me!" The words sang in Philip'sears like a sweet tune half the way back to Ballure. Then he began topluck at the brambles by the wayside, to wound his hand by snatchingat the gorse, and to despise himself for being glad when he should havebeen in grief. Still, he was sure of it; there was no making any less ofit. She loved him, he was free to love her, there need be no hypocrisyand no self-denial; so he wiped the blood from his fingers, and creptinto the blue room of Auntie Nan. 

The old lady, in a dainty cap with flying streamers, was sitting bythe fireside spinning. She had heard the news of Pete as Philip passedthrough to Sulby, and was now wondering if it was not her duty toacquaint Uncle Peter. The sweet and natty old gentlewoman, brought up inthe odour of gentility, was thinking on the lines of poor Bridget, BlackTom when dying under the bare scraas, that a man's son was his son inspite of law or devil. 

She decided against telling the Ballawhaine by remembering an incidentin the life of his father. It was about Philip's father, too; so Philipstretched his legs from the sofa towards the hearth, and listened to theold Auntie's voice over the whirr of her wheel, with another voice--ayounger voice, an unheard voice--breaking: in at the back of his earswhen the wheel stopped, and a sweet undersong inside of him always, saying, "Be sensible; there is no disloyalty; Pete is dead. Poor Pete!Poor old Pete!"

"Though he had cast your father off, Philip, for threatening to makeyour mother his wife, he never believed there was a parson on the islandwould dare to marry them against his wish. "

"No, really?"

"No; and when Uncle Peter came in at dinner-time a week after and said, 'It's all over, ' he said, 'No, sir, no, ' and threw down his spoon inthe plate, and the hot broth splashed on my hand, I remember. But Petersaid, 'It's past praying for, sir, ' and then grandfather cried, 'No, Itell you no. ' 'But I tell you yes, sir, ' said Peter. 'Maughold Churchyesterday morning before service. ' Then grandfather lost himself, andcalled Peter 'Liar, ' and cried that your father couldn't do it. 'And, besides, he's my own son after all, and would not, ' said grandfather. But I could see that he believed what Uncle Peter had told him, and, when Peter began to cry, he said, 'Forgive me, my boy; I'm your fatherfor all, and I've a right to your forgiveness. ' All the same, hewouldn't be satisfied until he had seen the register, and I had to gowith him to the church. "

"Poor old grandfather!"

"The vicar in those days was a little dotty man named Kissack, and itwas the joy of his life to be always crushing and stifling somebody, because somebody was always depriving him of his rights or something. "

"I remember him--the Cockatoo. His favourite text was, 'Jesus said, thenfollow Me, ' only the people declared he always wanted to go first. "

"Shocking, Philip. It was evening when we drove up to Maughold, and thelittle parson was by the Cross, ordering somebody with a cane. 'I amtold you married my son yesterday; is it true?' said grandfather. 'Quitetrue, ' said the vicar. 'By banns or special license?' grandfather asked. 'License, of course, ' the vicar answered. "

"Curt enough, any way. "

"'Show me the register, ' said grandfather, and his face twitched and hisvoice was thick. 'Can't you believe me?' said the vicar. 'The register, 'said grandfather. Then the vicar turned the key in the church door andstrutted up the aisle, humming something. I tried to keep grandfatherback even then. 'What's the use?' I said, for I knew he was onlyfighting against belief. But, hat in hand, he followed to the Communionrail, and there the vicar laid the open book before him. Oh, Philip, shall I ever forget it? How it all comes back--the little dim church, the smell of damp and of velvet under the holland covers of the pulpit, and the empty place echoing. And grandfather fixed his glasses andleaned over the register, but he could see nothing--only blurr, blurr, blurr. 

"'_You_ look at it, child, ' he said, over his shoulder. But I daren'tface it; so he rubbed his glasses and leaned over the book again. Ohdear! he was like one who looks down the list of the slain for the namehe prays he may not find. But the name was there, too surely: 'ThomasWilson Christian. . . To Mona Crellin. . . Signed Wm. Crellin and somethingKissack. '"

Philip's breath came hot and fast. 

"The little vicar was swinging his cane to and fro on the other side ofthe rail and smiling, and grandfather raised his eyes to him and said, 'Do you know what you've done, sir? You've robbed me of my first-bornson and ruined him. ' 'Nonsense, sir, ' said the vicar. 'Your son was ofage, and his wife had the sanction of her father. Was I to go round byBallawhaine for permission to do my duty as a clergyman?' 'Duty!' criedgrandfather. 'When a young man marries, he marries for heaven or forhell. Your duty as a clergyman!' he cried, till his voice rang in theroof. 'If a son of yours had his hand at his throat, would you callit my duty as Deemster to hand him a knife. ' 'Silence, sir, ' said thevicar. Remember where you stand, or, Deemster though you are, you shallrepent it. ' 'Arrest me for brawling, will you?' cried grandfather, andhe snatched the cane out of the vicar's hand and struck him across thebreast. 'Arrest me now, ' he said, and then tottered and stumbled out ofthe church by my arm and the doors of the empty pews. "

Philip went to bed that night with burning brow and throbbing throat. He had made a startling discovery. He was standing where his fatherhad stood before him; he was doing what his father had done; he wasin danger of his father's fate! Where was his head that he had neverthought of this before?

It was hard--it was terrible. Now that he was free to love the girl, herealised what it meant to love her. Nevertheless he was young, and herebelled, he fought, he would not deliberate, The girl conquered in hisheart that night, and he lay down to sleep. 

But next morning he told himself, with a shudder, that it was lucky hehad gone no farther. One step more and all the evil of his father'slife might have been repeated in his own. There had been nothing said, nothing done. He would go to Sulby no more. 

XIV. 

That mood lasted until mid-day, and then a scout of the line of lovebegan to creep into his heart in disguise. He reminded himself that hehad promised to go on Sunday, and that it would be unseemly to break offthe acquaintance too suddenly, lest the simple folks should think he hadborne with them throughout four years merely for the sake of Pete. Butafter Sunday he would take a new turn. 

He found Kate dressed as she had never been before. Instead of the loosered bodice and the sun-bonnet, the apron and the kilted petticoat, shewore a close-fitting dark green frock with a lace collar. The change wassimple, but it made all the difference. She was not more beautiful, butshe was more like a lady. 

It was Sunday evening, and the "Fairy" was closed. Csesar and Granniewere at the preaching-house, Nancy Joe was cooking crowdie for supper, and Kate and Philip talked. The girl was quieter than Philip had everknown her--more modest, more apt to blush, and with the old audacity ofword and look quite gone. They talked of success in life, and she said--

"How I should like to fight my way in the world as you are doing! But awoman can do nothing to raise herself. Isn't it hard? Whatever the placewhere she was born in, she must remain there all her days. She can seeher brothers rise, and her friends perhaps, but she must remain below. Isn't it a pity? It isn't that she wants to be rich or great. No, notthat; only she doesn't want to be left behind by the people she likes. She must be, though, and just because she's a woman. I'm sure it's so inthe Isle of Man, anyway. Isn't it cruel?"

"But aren't you forgetting something?" said Philip. 

"Yes?"

"If a woman can't rise of herself because the doors of life are lockedto her, it is always possible for a man to raise her. "

"Some one who loves her, you mean, and so lifts her to his own level, and takes her up with him as he goes up?"

"Why not?" said Philip. 

Kate's eyes beamed like sunshine. "That is lovely, " she said in a lowvoice. "Do you know, I never thought of that before! If it were my case, I should like that best of all. Side by side with him, and he doing all?Oh, that is beautiful!"

And she gazed up with a timid joy at the inventive being who had thoughtof this as at something supernatural. 

Cæsar and Grannie came back, both in fearful outbursts of Sundayclothes. Nevertheless Cæsar's eyes, after the first salutation withPhilip, fixed themselves on Kate's unfamliar costume. 

"Such worldly attire!" he muttered, following the girl round the kitchenand blowing up his black gloves. "This caring for the miserablebody that will one day be lowered into the grave! What does the Booksay?--put my tall hat on the clane laff, Nancy. 'Let it not be theoutward adorning of putting on of apparel, but let it be the hidden manof the heart. '"

"But sakes alive, father, " said Grannie, loosening a bonnet like adiver's helmet, "if it comes to that, what is Jeremiah saying, 'Can amaid forget her ornaments?'"

"It's like she can if she hasn't any to remember, " said Cæsar. "Butmaybe the prophet Jeremiah didn't know the mothers that's in now. "

"Chut, man! Girls are like birds, and the breed comes out in thefeathers, " said Grannie. 

"Where's she getting it then? Not from me at all, " said Cæsar. 

"Deed, no, man, " laughed Grannie, "considering the smart she is and therasonable good-looking. "

"Hould your tongue, woman; it'll become you better, " said Cæsar. 

Philip rose to go. "You're time enough yet, sir, " cried Cæsar. "I wasfor telling you of a job. "

Some of the fishermen of Ramsey had been over on Saturday. Their seasonwas a failure, and they were loud in their protests against the trawlerswho were destroying the spawn. Cæsar had suggested a conference athis house on the following Saturday of Ramsey men and Peel men, andrecommended Philip as an advocate to advise with them as to the bestmeans to put a stop to the enemies of the herring. Philip promised to bethere, and then went home to Auntie Nan. 

He told himself on the way that Kate was completely above hersurroundings, and capable of becoming as absolute a lady as ever livedon the island, without a sign of her origin in look or speech, exceptperhaps the rising inflexion in her voice which made the talk of thetrue Manxwoman the sweetest thing in the world to listen to. 

Auntie Nan was sitting by the lamp, reading her chapter before going tobed. 

"Auntie, " said Philip, "don't you think the tragedy in the life offather was accidental? Due, I mean, to the particular characters ofgrandfather and poor mother? Now, if the one had been less proud, lessexclusive, or the other more capable of rising with her husband----"

"The tragedy was deeper than that, dear; let me tell you a story, " saidAuntie Nan, laying down her book. "Three days after your father leftBallawhaine, old Maggie, the housemaid, came to my side at supper andwhispered that some one was wanting me in the garden. It was Thomas. Ohdear! it was terrible to see him there, that ought to have been theheir of everything, standing like a stranger in the dark beyond thekitchen-door. "

"Poor father!" said Philip. 

"'Whist, girl, come out of the light, ' he whispered. 'There's a pursewith twenty pounds odd in my desk upstairs; get it, Nan, here's thekey. ' I knew what he wanted the money for, but I couldn't help it; I gothim the purse and put ten pounds more of my own in it. 'Must you do it?'I said. 'I must, ' he answered. 'Your father says everybody will despiseyou for this marriage, ' I said. 'Better they should than I shoulddespise myself, ' said he. 'But he calls it moral suicide, ' I said. 'That's not so bad as moral murder, ' he replied. 'He knows the island, 'I urged, 'and so do you, Tom, and so do I, and nobody can hold up hishead in a little place like this after a marriage like that. ' 'All theworse for the place, ' said he, 'if it stains a man's honour for actinghonourably. '"

"Father was an upright man, " interrupted Philip. "There's no questionabout it, my father was a gentleman. "

"'She must be a sweet, good girl, and worthy of you, or you wouldn'tmarry her, ' said I to father; 'but are you sure that you will behappy and make her happy?' We shall have each other, and it is our ownaffair, ' said father. "

"Precisely, " said Philip. 

"'But if there is a difference between you now, ' I said, 'will it beless when you are the great man we hope to see you some day?' 'A man isnot always thinking of success, ' he answered. 

"My father was a great man already, Auntie, " burst out Philip. 

"He was shaken and I was ashamed, but I could not help it, I went on. 'Has the marriage gone too far?' I asked. 'It has never been mentionedbetween us, ' said he. 'Your father is old, and can't live long, ' Ipleaded. 'He wants me to behave like a scoundrel, ' he answered. 'Whythat, if the girl has no right to you yet?' I said, and he was silent. Then I crept up and looked in at the window. 'See, ' I whispered, 'he'sin the library. We'll take him by surprise. Come!' It was not to be. There was a smell of tobacco on the air and the thud of a step on thegrass. 'Who's that?' I said. 'Who should it be, ' cried father, 'but thesame spy again. I'll shake the life out of him yet as a terrier woulda rat. No use, girl, ' he shouted hoarsely, facing towards the darkness, 'they're driving me to destruction. ' 'Hush!' I said, and covered hismouth with my hands, and his breath was hot, like fire. But it wasuseless. He was married three days afterwards. "

Philip resolved to see Kate no more. He must go to Sulby on Saturdayto meet the fishermen, but that would be a business visit; he need notprolong it into a friendly one. All the week through he felt as if hisheart would break; but he resolved to conquer his feelings. He pitiedhimself somewhat, and that helped him to rise above his error. 

XV. 

On Saturday night he was early at Sulby. The bat-room was thronged withfishermen in guernseys, sea-boots, and sou'-westers. They were all ontheir feet together, twisting about like great congers on the quay, drinking a little and smoking a great deal, thumping the table, andall talking at once. "How've you done, Billy?"--"Enough to keep away thedivil and the coroner, and that's about all. "--"Where's TomDug?"--"Gone to Austrilla. "--"Is Jimmy over to-day?"--"He's awayto Cleveland. "--"Gough, bless me, every Manx boy seems to be goingforeign. "--"That's where we'll all be after long and last, if we don'tstop these southside trawlers. "

Philip went in and was received with goodwill and rough courtesy, but noman abated a jot of his freedom of action or liberty of speech, andthe thumping and shouting were as loud as before. "Appeal to theReceiver-General. "--"Chut! an ould woman with a face winking at youlike a roast potato. "--"Will we go to the Bishop, then?"--"A whitewashedMethodist with a soul the size of a dried pea. "--"The Governor is theproper person, " said Philip above the hubbub, "and he is to visit PeelCastle next Saturday afternoon about the restorations. Let every Manxfisherman who thinks the trawl-boats are enemies of the fish be therethat day. Then lay your complaint before the man whose duty it is toinquire into all such grievances; and if you want a spokesman, I'm readyto speak for you. "--"Bravo!"--"That's the ticket!"

Then the meeting was at an end; the men went on with stories of theweek's fishing, stories of smugglers, stories of the Swaddlers (theWesleyans), stories of the totalers (teetotallers), and Philip madefor the door. When he got there, he began to reflect that, being inthe house, he ought to leave good-night with Cæsar and Grannie. Hardlydecent not to do so. No use hurting people's feelings. Might as wellbe civil. Cost nothing anyway. Thus an overpowering compulsion in thedisguise of courtesy drew him again into Kate's company; but to-morrowhe would take a new turn. 

"Proud to see you, Mr. Philip, " said Cæsar. 

"The water's playing in the kettle; make Mr. Philip a cup of tay, Nancy, " said Grannie. Cæsar was sitting back to the partition, pretending to read out of a big Bible on his knees, but listeningwith both ears and open mouth to the profane stories being told in thebar-room. Kate was not in the kitchen, but an open book, face downwards, lay on the chair by the turf closet. 

"What's this?" said Philip. "A French exercise-book! Whoever can itbelong to here?"

"Aw, Kirry, of coorse, " said Grannie, "and sticking that close to it ofan everin that you haven't a chance to put a word on her. "

"Vanity, sir, vanity, all vanity, " said Cæsar; and again he listenedhard. 

Philip's eyes began to blink. "Teaching herself French, is she? Has shebeen doing it long, Grannie?"

"Long enough, sir, three years or better, since poor Pete went awaymaybe; and at the books for ever, grammars and tex' books, and I don'tknow what. "

Cæsar, with his ear at the glass, made an impatient gesture for silence, but Grannie continued, "I don't know what for people should be larningthemselves foreign languages at all. For my part, there isn't one ofthem bates the Manx itself for plainness. And aren't we reading, whenthe Lord wanted to bring confusion on Noah and his disobedient sons andgrandsons at going up the Tower of Babel, he made them spake differenttongues?"

"Good thing too, " snapped Cæsar, "if every poor man was bound to carryhis wife up with him. "

Philip's eyes were streaming, and, unobserved, he put the lesson-book tohis lips. He had guessed its secret. The girl was making herself worthyof him. God bless, her!

Kate came downstairs in the dark dress and white collar of Sunday night. She saw Philip putting down the book, lowered her head and blushed, took up the volume, and smuggled it out of sight. Then Cæsar's curiosityconquered his propriety and he ventured into the bar-room, Grannie cameand went between the counter and the fishermen, Nancy clicked about fromdairy to door, and Kate and Philip were left alone. 

"You were wrong the other night, " she said. "I have been thinking itover, and you were quite, quite wrong. "

"So?"

"If a man marries a woman beneath him, he stoops to her, and to stoop toher is to pity her, and to pity her is to be ashamed of her, and to beashamed of her would kill her. So you are wrong. "

"Yes?" said Philip. 

"Yes, " said Kate, "but do you know what it ought to be? The _woman_ought to marry beneath herself, and the man _above_ himself; then asmuch as the woman descends, the man rises, and so-----don't you see?"

She faltered and stopped, and Philip said, "Aren't you talkingnonsense, ' Kate?"

"Indeed, sir!"

Kate pretended to be angry at the rebuff, and pouted her lips, but hereyes were beaming. 

"There is neither above nor below where there is real liking, " saidPhilip. "If you like any one, and she is necessary to your life, that isthe sign of your natural equality. It is God's sign, and all the rest isonly man's book-keeping. "

"You mean, " said Kate, trying to keep a grave mouth, "you mean that ifa woman belongs to some one she can like, and some one belongs to her, that is being equal, and everything else is nothing? Eh?"

"Why not?" said Philip. 

It was music to her, but she wagged her head solemnly and said, "I'msure you're wrong, Philip. I am, though. Yes, indeed I am. But it's nouse arguing. Not against you. Only----"

The glorious choir of love-birds in her bosom were singing so loud thatshe could say no more, and the irresistible one had his way. After awhile, she stuffed something into the fire. 

"What's that?" said Philip. 

"Oh, nothing, " she answered brightly. 

It was the French exercise-book. 

XVI. 

Philip went home rebelling against his father's fate. It was accidental;it was inevitable only in the Isle of Man. But perdition to the placewhere a man could not marry the woman he loved if she chanced to be bornin the manger instead of the stable loft. Perdition to the land where aman could not live unless he was a skunk or a cur. Thank God the worldwas wide. 

That night he said to Auntie Nan, "Auntie, why didn't father go awaywhen he found the tide setting so strongly against him?"

"He always meant to, but he never could, " said Auntie Nan. "A womanisn't like a man, ready to pitch her tent here to-day and thereto-morrow. We're more like cats, dear, and cling to the places we'reused to, if they're only ruins of tumbling stones. Your mother wasn'thappy in the Isle of Man, but she wouldn't leave it. Your fatherwouldn't go without her, and then there was the child. He was here forweal or woe, for life or death. When he married his wife he made thechain that bound him to the island as to a rock. "

"It wouldn't be like that with Kate, " thought Philip. But did Auntieknow anything? Had somebody told her? Was she warning him? On Sundaynight, on the way home from church, she talked of his father again. 

"He came to see at last that it wasn't altogether his own affaireither, " she said. "It was the night he died. Your mother had beenunwell and father had sent for me. It was a dark night, and late, verylate, and they brought me down the hill from Lewaige Cottage with alantern. Father was sinking, but he _would_ get out of bed. We werealone together then, he and I, except for you, and you were asleep inyour cot by the window. He made straight for it, and struggled down onhis knees at its side by help of the curtains. 'Listen, ' he said, tryingto whisper, though he could not, for his poor throat was making noises. You were catching your breath, as if sobbing in your sleep. 'Poor littleboy, he's dreaming, ' said I; 'let me turn him on his side. ' 'It's notthat, ' said father; 'he went to sleep in trouble. '"

"I remember it, Auntie, " said Philip. "Perhaps he had been trying totell me something. "

"'My boy, my son, forgive me, I have sinned against you, ' he said, andhe tried to reach over the cot rail and put his lips to your forehead, but his poor head shook like palsy and bobbed down into your littleface. I remember you rubbed your nose with your little fist, but you didnot waken. Then I helped him back to bed, and the table with themedicine glasses jingled by the trembling of his other hand. 'It's dark, all, all dark, Nannie, ' he said, 'sure some angel will bring me light, 'and I was so simple I thought he meant the lamp, for it was dying down, and I lit a candle. "

Philip went about his work that week as if the spirit of his father werehovering over him, warning him when awake in words of love and pleading, crying to him in his sleep in tones of anger and command, "Stand back;you are at the edge of the precipice. "

Nevertheless his soul rose in rebellion against this league as of thepast and the dead. It was founded in vanity, in the desire for glory andsuccess. Only let a man renounce the world and all that the world cangive, and he can be true to himself, to his heart's impulse, to hishonour, and to his love. He would deliberate no longer. He despisedhimself for deliberating. If was the world against Kate, let the worldgo to perdition. 

XVII. 

On Saturday afternoon he was at Peel. It was a beautiful day; the sunwas shining, and the bay was blue and flat and quiet. The tide was down, the harbour was empty of water, but full of smacks with hanging sailsand hammocks of nets and lines of mollags (bladders) up to the mastheads. A flight of seagulls were fishing in the mud, and swirlingthrough the brown wings of the boats and crying. A flag floated overthe ruins of the castle, the church-bells were ringing, and theharbour-masters were abroad in best blue and gold buttons. 

On the tilting-ground of the castle the fishermen had gathered, sixteenhundred strong. There were trawlers among them, Manx, Irish, andEnglish, prowling through the crowd, and scooping up the odds and endsof gossip as their boats on the bottom scraped up the little fish. Occasionally they were observed by the herring-fishers, and then therewere high words and free fights. "Taking a creep round from Port leMurrey are you, Dan?"--"Thought I'd put a sight on Peel to-day. "--"Badfor your complexion, though; might turn it red, I'm thinking. "--"Strekme with blood will you? I'd just like you to strek me, begough. I'd puta Union Jack on your face as big as a griddle. "

The Governor came, an elderly man, with a formidable air, an aquilinenose, and cheeks pitted with small-pox. Philip introduced the fishermenand told their grievance. Trawling destroyed immature fish, and socontributed to the failure of the fisheries. They asked for power tostop it in the bays of the island, and within three miles of the coast. 

"Then draft me a bill with that object, Mr. Christian, " said theGovernor, and the meeting ended with cheers for His Excellency, shoutsfor Philip, and mutterings of contempt from the trawlers. "Didn't thinkthere was a man on the island could spake like it. "--"But hasn't yourfancy-man been rubbing his back agen the college?"--"I'd take lil tackshome if I was yourself, Dan. "--"Drink much more and it'll be two feetdeep inside of you. "

Philip was hurrying away under the crumbling portcullis, when adeputation of the fishermen approached him. "What are we owing you, Mr. Christian?" asked their spokesman. 

"Nothing, " answered Philip. 

"We thank you, sir, and you'll be hearing from us again. Meanwhile, aword if you plaze, sir?"

"What is it, men?" said Philip. 

"When a young man can spake like yonder, it's a gift, sir, and he'shoulding it in trust for something. The ould island's wanting a bigman ter'ble bad, and it hasn't seen the like since the days of your owngrandfather. Good everin, and thank you--good everin!"

With that the rough fellows dismissed him at the ferry steps, and hehastened to the market-place, where he had left his horse. On puttingup, he had seen Cæsar's gig tipped up in the stable-yard. It was nowgone, and, without asking questions, he mounted and made towards Ramsey. 

He took the old road by the cliffs, and as he cantered and galloped, hehummed, and whistled, and sang, and slashed the trees to keep himselffrom thinking. At the crest of the hill he sighted the gig in front, andat Port Lady he came up with it. Kate was driving and Cæsar was noddingand dozing. 

"You've been having a great day, Mr. Christian, " said Cæsar. "Wish Icould say the same for myself; but the heart of man is decaitful, sir, and desperately wicked. I'm not one to clap people in the castleand keep them from sea for debts of drink, and they're taking amane advantage. Not a penny did I get to-day, sir, and many a yellowsovereign owing to me. If I was like some--now there's that Tom Raby, Glen Meay. He saw Dan the Spy coming from the total meeting last night. 'Taken the pledge, Dan?' says he. 'Yes, I have, ' says Dan. 'I'm plazedto hear it, ' says he; 'come in and I'll give you a good glass of rumfor it. ' And Dan took the rum for taking the pledge, and there he was asdrunk as Mackilley in the castle this morning. "

Philip listened as he rode, and a half-melancholy, half-mockingexpression played on his face. He was thinking of his grandfather, oldIron Christian, brought into relation with his mother's father, Capt. Billy Ballure, of the dainty gentility of Auntie Nan and the unctuousvulgarity of the father of Kate. 

Cæsar grumbled himself to sleep at last, and then Philip was alone withthe girl, and riding on her side of the gig. She was quiet at first, buta joyous smile lit up her face. 

"I was in the castle, too, " she said, with a look of pride. 

The sun went down over the waters behind them, and cast their brownshadows on the road in front; the twilight deepened, the night camedown, the moon rose in their faces, and the stars appeared. They couldhear the tramp of the horses' hoofs, the roll of the gig wheels, thewash and boom of the sea on their left, and the cry Of the sea-fowlsomewhere beneath. The lovelinese and warmth of the autumn night stoleover Kate, and she began to keep up a flow of merry chatter. 

"I can tell all the sounds of the fields in the darkness. By themoonlight? No; but with my eyes shut, if you like. Now try me. "

She closed her eyes and went on: "Do you hear that--that patter likesoft rain? That's oats nearly ripe for harvest. Do you hear that, then--that pit-a-pat, like sheep going by on the street? That's wheat, just ready. And there--that whiss, whiss, whiss? That's barley. "

She opened her eyes: "Don't you think I'm very clever?"

Philip felt an impulse to lean over the wheel and put his arms about thegirl's neck. 

"Take care, " she cried merrily; "your horse is shying. "

He gazed at her face, lit up in the white moonlight. "How bright andhappy you seem, Kate!" he said with a shiver; and then he laid one handon the gig rail. 

Her eyelids quivered, her mouth twitched, and she answered gaily, "Whynot? Aren't you? You ought to be, you know. How glorious to succeed? Itmeans so much--new things to see, new houses to visit, new pleasures, new friends----"

Her joyous tones broke down in a nervous laugh at that last word, and hereplied, in a faltering voice, "That may be true of the big world overyonder, Kate, but it isn't so in a little island like ours. To succeedhere is like going up the tower of Castle Rushen with some one lockingthe doors on the stone steps behind you. At every storey the roombecomes less, until at the top you have only space to stand alone. Then, if you should ever come down again, there's but one way for you--overthe battlements with a crash. "

She looked up at him with startled eyes, and his own were large and fullof trouble. They were going through Kirk Michael by the house of theDeemster, who was ill, and both drew rein and went slowly. Some acaciasin the garden slashed their broadswords in the night air, and a windmillbehind stood out against the moon like a gigantic bat. The black shadowof the horses stepped beside them. 

"Are you feeling lonely to-night, Philip?"

"I'm feeling----"

"Yes?"

"I'm feeling as if the dead and the living, the living and the dead--oh, Kate, Kate, I don't know what I'm feeling. "

She put her hand caressingly on the top of his hand. "Never mind, dear, "she said softly; "I'll stand by you. You shan't be _alone_. "

XVIII. 

It was midday, then, on the tropic seas, and the horizon was closing inwith clouds as of blood and vapours of stifling heat. A steamship wasrolling in a heavy swell, under winds that were as hot as gusts from anopen furnace. Under its decks a man lay in an atmosphere of fever andthe sickening odour of bandages and stale air. Above the throb of theengines and the rattle of the rudder chain he heard a step going by hisopen door, and he called in a feeble voice that was cheerful and almostmerry, but yet the voice of a homesick boy--

"How many days from home, engineer?"

"Not more than twenty now. "

"Put on steam, mate; put it on. Wish I could be skipping below andstoking up for you like mad. "

As the ship rolled, the green reflection of the water and the red lightof the sky shot alternately through the porthole and lit up the berthlike firelight flashing in a dead house. 

"Ask the boys if they'll carry me on deck, sir--just for a breath offresh air. "

The sailors came and carried him. "You can do anything for a chap likethat. "

The big sun was straight overhead, weighing down on their shoulders, andthere was no shelter anywhere, for the shadows were under foot. 

"Slip out the sails, lads, and let's fly along. Wish I could tumble upthe rigging myself and look out from the yards same as a gull, but I'monly an ould parrot chained down to my stick. "

They left him, and he gazed out on the circle of water and the vapourshaking over it like a veil. The palpitating air was making the circlesmaller every minute, but the world seem cruelly large for all that. Hewas looking beyond the visible things; he was listening deeper than thewash of the waves; he was dreaming, dreaming. Apparitions were floatingin the heat-clouds over him. Home! Its voices whispered at his ear, itsface peered into his eyes. But the hot winds came up and danced roundhim; the air, the sea, the sky, the whole world, the utter universeseemed afire; his eyes rolled upwards to his brow; he almost choked andfainted. 

"Carry him below, poor fellow! He's got a good heart to think he'll eversee home again. He'll never see it. "

Half-way down the companion-ladder he opened his eyes with a look ofdespair. Would God let him die after all?

XIX. 

Kate began to feel that Philip was slipping away from her. He loved her, she was sure of that, but something was dragging them apart Her greatenemy was Philip's success. This was rapid and constant. She wanted torejoice in it; she struggled to feel glad and happy, and even proud. Butthat was impossible. It was ungenerous, it was mean, but she could nothelp it--she resented every fresh mark of Philip's advancement. 

The world that was carrying Philip up was carrying him away. She wouldbe left far below. It would be presumptuous to lift her eyes to him. Visions came to her of Philip in other scenes than her scenes, amongladies in drawing-rooms, beautiful, educated, clever, able to talk ofmany things beyond her knowledge. Then she looked at herself, andfelt vexed with her hands, made coarse by the work of the farm; at herfather, and felt ashamed of the moleskin clothes he wore in the mill; ather home, and flushed deep at the thought of the bar-room. 

It was small and pitiful, she knew that, and she shuddered under thesense of being a meaner-hearted girl than she had ever thought. Ifshe could do something of herself to counteract the difference madeby Philip's success, if she could raise herself a little, she would becontent to keep behind, to let him go first, to see him forge ahead ofher, and of everybody, being only in sight and within reach. But shecould do nothing except writhe and rebel against the network of femalecustom, or tear herself in the thorny thicket of female morals. 

Harvest had begun; half the crop of Glenmooar had been saved, a thirdwas in stook, and then a wet day had come and stopped all work in thefields. On this wet day, in the preaching-room of the mill, amid formsand desks, with the cranch of the stones from below, the wash of thewheel from outside, and the rush of the uncrushed corn from above, Cæsarsat rolling sugganes for the stackyard, with Kate working the twister, and going backward before him, and half his neighbours sheltering fromthe rain and looking on. 

"Thought I'd have a sight up and tell you, " said Kelly, the postman. 

"What's the news, Mr. Kelly?" said Cæsar. 

"The ould Dempster's dying, " said Kelly. 

"You don't say?" said everybody. 

"Well, as good as dying at ten minutes wanting eight o'clock thismorning, " said the postman. 

"The drink's been too heavy for the man, " said John, the clerk. 

"Wine is a serpent, and strong drink a mocker, " said Cæsar. 

"Who'll be the new Dempster, Mr. Niplightly, " said Jonaique. 

"Hm!" snuffled the constable, easing his helmet, "dat's a seriousmatter, Mr. Jelly. We'll dake our time--well dake our time. "

"Chut! There's only one man for it, " said Cæsar. 

"Perhaps yes, perhaps no, " said the constable. 

"Do you mane the young Ballawhaine, Mr. Cregeen?" said the postman. 

"Do I mane fiddlesticks!" said Cæsar. 

"Well, the man's father is at the Govenar reg'lar, they're telling me, "said Kelly, "and Ross is this, and Ross is that--"

"Every dog praises his own tail, " said Cæsar. 

"I'm not denying it, the man isn't fit--he has sold himself to thedevil, that's a fact----"

"No, he hasn't, " said Cæsar, "the devil gets the like for nothing. "

"But he's a Christian for all, and the Christians have been Dempsterstime out of time----"

"Is he the only Christian that's in, then, eh?" said Cæsar. "Go on, Kate; twist away. "

"Is it Mr. Philip? Aw, I'm saying nothing against Mr. Philip, " said thepostman. 

"You wouldn't get lave in this house, anyway, " said Cæsar. 

"Aw, a right gentleman and no pride at all, " said the postman. "As freeand free with a poor man, and no making aisy either. I've nothing agenhim myself. No, but a bit young for a Dempster, isn't he? Just a tasteyoung, as the man said, eh?"

"Older than the young Ballawhaine, anyway, " said John, the clerk. 

"Aw, make him Dempster, then. I'm raising no objection, " said Mr. Kelly. 

"Go on, girl. Does that twister want oiling? Feed it, woman, feed it, "said Cæsar. 

"His father should have been Dempster before him, " said John, the clerk. "Would have been too, only he went crooked when he married on yonderwoman. She's through though, and what more natural----"

The rope stopped again, and Kate's voice, hard and thick, came from thefarther end of it. "His mother being dead, eh?"

"It was the mother that done for the father, anyway, " said the clerk. 

"Consequently, " said Kate, "he is to praise God that his mother isgone!"

"That girl wants a doctor, " muttered Jonaique. 

"The man couldn't drag the woman up after him, " began the clerk. "It'salways the way----"

"Just that, " said Kate, with bitter irony. 

"Of coorse, I'm not for saying it was the woman's fault entirely----"

"Don't apologise for her, " said Kate. "She's gone and forgotten, andthat being so, her son has now a chance of being Deemster. "

"So he has, " shouted Cæsar, "and not second Dempster only, but firstDempster itself in time, and go on with the twister. "

Kate laughed loudly, and cried, "Why don't you keep it up when yourhand's in? First Deemster Christian, and then Sir Philip Christian, andthen Lord Christian, and then----But you're talking nonsense, and you'rea pack of tattlers. There's no thought of making Philip Christian aDeemster, and no hope of it and no chance of it, and I trust there neverwill be. "

So saying, she flung the twister on the floor and rushed out of themill, sobbing hysterically. 

"Dr. Clucas is wonderful for females and young girls, " said Jonaique. 

"It's that Ross again, " muttered Cæsar. 

"And he'll have her yet, " said Kelly, the postman. 

"I'd see her dead first, " said Cæsar. "It would be the jaws of hell andthe mouth of Satan. "

That she who loved Philip to distraction should be the first to abuseand defame him was agony near to madness, for Kate knew where she stood. It was not merely that Philip's success was separating them, not merelythat the conventions of life, its usages, its manners, and its customswere putting worlds between them. The pathos of the girl's positionwas no accidental thing. It was a deeper, older matter; it was the sameto-day as it had been yesterday and would be to-morrow; it began in thegarden of Eden and would go on till the last woman died---it was thenatural inferiority of woman in relation to man. 

She had the same passions as Philip, and was moved by the same love. But she was not free. Philip alone was free. She had to wait on Philip'swill, on Philip's word. She saw Philip slipping away from her, but shecould not snatch at him before he was gone; she could not speak first;she could not say, "I love you; stay with me!" She was a woman, only awoman! How wretched to be a woman! How cruel!

But ah! the dear delicious thought! It came stealing up into her heartwhen the red riot was nearly killing her. What a glorious thing itwas to be a woman after all! What a powerful thing! What a lovely andbeloved thing! To rule the king, being the slave, was sweeter than to bethe king himself. That was woman's place. It was where heaven itselfhad put her from the beginning until now. What weapons had it givenher! Beauty! Charm! Love! The joy of it! To be the weak and overcome thestrong! To be nothing in the battle of life, and yet conqueror of allthe world!

Kate vowed that, come what would, Philip should never leave her. 

XX. 

On the day when the last of the harvest is saved in the Isle of Man, thefarmer gives a supper to his farm-people, and to the neighbours whohave helped him to cut and house it. This supper, attended by simple andbeautiful ceremonies, is called the Melliah. The parson may be asked toit, and if there is a friend of position and free manners, he also isinvited. Cæsar's Melliah fell within a week of the rope-making in themill, and partly to punish Kate, partly to honour himself, he askedPhilip to be present. 

"He'll come, " thought Kate with secret joy, "I'm sure he'll come;" andin this certainty, when the day of Melliah came, she went up to her roomto dress for it. She was to win Philip that day or lose him for ever. It was to be her trial day--she knew that. She was to fight as for herlife, and gain or lose everything. It was to be a battle royal betweenall the conventions of life, all the network of female custom, all theinferiority of a woman's position as God himself had suffered it to be, and one poor girl. 

She began to cry, but struggling with her sadness, she dashed the tearsfrom her glistening eyes. What was there to cry about? Philip _wanted_to love her, and he should, he must. 

It was a glorious day, and not yet more than two o'clock. Nancy hadwashed up the dinner things, the fire-irons were polished, the boots andspare whips were put up on, the lath, the old hats like lines of headson a city gate were hung round the kitchen walls, the hearthrug wasdown, the turf was piled up on the fire, the kettle was singing from theslowrie, and the whole house was taking its afternoon nap. 

Kate's bedroom looked over the orchard and across the stackyard up theglen. She could see the barley stack growing in the haggard; the ladencart coming down the glen road with the driver three decks up over themare, now half smothered and looking suddenly little, like a snail underthe gigantic load; and beyond the long meadow and the Bishop's bridge, the busy fields dotted with the yellow stooks and their black shadowslike a castle's studded doors. 

When she had thrown off her blue-black dress to wash her arms andshoulders and neck were bare. She caught sight of herself in the glass, and laughed with delight. The years had brought her a fuller flow oflife. She was beautiful, and she knew it. And Philip knew it too, buthe should know it to day as he had never known it before. She folded herarms in their roundness over her bosom in its fulness and walked up anddown the little room over the sheep-skin rugs, under the turfy scraas, glowing in the joy of blooming health and conscious loveliness. Then shebegan to dress. 

She took from a drawer two pairs of stockings, one black and the otherred, and weighed their merits with moral gravity--which? The red had it, and then came the turn of the boots. There was a grand new pair, withcountless buttons, two toecaps like two flowers, and an upward curvelike the arm of a glove. She tried them on, bent back and forward, butrelinquished them with a sigh in favour of plain shoes cut under theankles and tied with tape. 

Her hair was a graver matter. Its tangled curls had never satisfied her. She tried all means to bring them into subjection; but the roll on topwas ridiculous, and the roll behind was formal. She attempted long wavesover the temples. It was impossible. With a lash-comb she dragged herhair back to its natural lawlessness, and when it fell on her foreheadand over her ears and around her white neck in little knowing ringsthat came and went, and peeped out and slid back, like kittens athide-and-seek, she laughed and was content. 

From a recess covered by a shawl running on a string she took down herbodice. It was a pink blouse, loose over the breast, like hills ofred sand on the shore, and loose, too, over the arms, but tight atthe wrist. When she put it on it lit up her head like a gleam from thesunset, and her eyes danced with delight. 

The skirt was a print, with a faint pink flower, the sash was a band ofcotton of the colour of the bodice, and then came the solemn problemsof the throat. It was round, and full, and soft, and like a tower. Shewould have loved to leave it bare, but dared not. Out of a drawer underthe looking-glass she took a string of pearls. They were a present fromKimberley, and they hung over her fingers a moment and then slippedback. A white silk handkerchief, with a watermark, was chosen instead. She tied it in a sailor's knot, with the ends flying loose, and thetriangular corner lying down her back. 

Last of all, she took out of a box a broad white straw hat, likean oyster shell, with a silver-grey ribbon, and a sweeping ostrichfeather. . She looked at it a moment, blew on it, plucked at its ribbon, lifted it over her head, held it at poise there, dropped it gently on toher hair, stood back from the glass to see it, and finally tore it offand sent it skimming on to the bed. 

The substitute was her everyday sun-bonnet, which had been lying on thefloor by the press. It was also of pale pink, with spots on its printlike little shells on a big scallop. When she had tossed it over herblack curls, leaving the strings to fall on her bosom, she could nothelp but laugh aloud. 

After all, she was dressed exactly the same as on other days of life, except Sunday, only smarter, perhaps, and fresher maybe. 

The sun-bonnet was right though, and she began to play with it. It wasso full of play; it lent itself to so many moods. It could speak; itcould say anything. She poked it to a point, as girls do when the sunis hot, by closing its mouth over the tip of her nose, leaving only aslumberous dark cave visible, through which her black eyes gleamed andher eyelashes shone. She tied the strings under her chin, and tippedthe bonnet back on to her neck, as girls will when the breeze is cool, leaving her hair uncovered, her mouth twitching merrily, and her headlike a nymph-head in an aureole. She took it off and tossed it on herarm, the strings still knotted, swinging it like a basket, then waftingit like a fan, and walking as she did so to and fro in the room, thefloor creaking, her print frock crinkling, and she herself laughing withthe thrill of passion vibrating and of imagined things to come. 

Then she went downstairs with a firm and buoyant step, her fresh lithefigure aglow with young blood and bounding health. 

At the gate of the "haggard" she met Nancy Joe coming out of thewashhouse. 

"Lord save us alive!" exclaimed Nancy. "If I ever wanted to be a manuntil this day!"

Kate kissed and hugged her, then fled away to the Melliah field. 

XXI. 

Philip, in Douglas, had received the following communication fromGovernment House:--

"His Excellency will be obliged to Mr. Philip Christian if he willnot leave the island for the present without acquainting him of hisdestination. "

The message was a simple one: it said little, and involved andforeshadowed nothing, but it threw Philip into a condition of greatexcitement. To relieve his restlessness by giving way to it, he went outto walk. It was the end of the tourist season, and the _Ben-my-Chree_was leaving the harbour. Newsboys, burrowing among the crowds onthe pier to sell a Manx evening paper, were crying, "Illness of theDeemster--serious reports. "

Philip's hair seemed to rise from his head. The two things came togetherin his mind. With an effort to smudge out the connection he turned backto his lodgings, looking at everything that his eyes fell on in therattling streets, speaking to everybody he knew, but seeing nothing andhearing nobody. The beast of life had laid its claws on him. 

Back in his rooms, he took out of his pocket a packet which Auntie Nanhad put in his hand when he was leaving Ramsey. It was a bundle of hisfather's old letters to his sister cousin, written from London in thedays when he was studying law and life was like the opening dawn. "Theink is yellow now, " said Auntie Nan; "it was black then, and the handthat wrote them is cold. But the blood runs red in them yet. Read them, Philip, " she said with a meaning look, and then he was sure she knew ofSulby. 

Philip read his father's letters until it was far into the night, and hehad gone through every line of them. They were as bright as sunshine, asfree as air, easy, playful, forcible, full of picture, but, above all, egotistical, proud with the pride of intellectuality, and vain with thecertainty of success. It was this egotism that fascinated Philip. Hesniffed it up as a colt sniffs the sharp wind. There was no need to makeallowances for it. The castles which his father had been building inthe air were only as hovels to the golden palaces which his son's eagerspirit was that night picturing. Philip devoured the letters. It wasalmost as if he had written them himself in some other state of being. The message from Government House lay on a table at his right, andsometimes he put his open hand over it as he sat close under the lamp ona table at his left and read on:--

. . . "Heard old Broom in the House last night, and today I lunchedwith him at Tabley's. They call him an orator and the king ofconversationalists. He speaks like a pump, and talks like a bottlerunning water. No conviction, no sincerity, no appeal. Civil enough tome though, and when he heard that father was a Deemster, he told me thetitle meant Doomster, and then asked me if I knew the meaning of 'Houseof Keys, ' and said it had its origin in the ancient Irish customof locking the muniment chests with twenty-four keys, whereof eachcounsellor kept one. When he had left us Tabley asked if he wasn't awonderful man, and if he didn't know something of everything, and Isaid, 'Yes, except the things of which I knew a little, and of them heknew nothing. '. . . My pen runs, runs. But, Nannie, my little Nannie, ifthis is what London calls a great man, I'll kick the ball like a toybefore me yet. "

. . . "So you are wondering where I am living--in man-sion or attic!Behold me then in Brick Court, Temple, second floor. Goldsmith wrote the'Vicar' on the third, but I've not got up to that yet. His rooms werethose immediately above me. I seem to see him coming down past my doorin that wonderful plum-coloured coat. And sitting here at night I thinkof him--the sudden fear, the solitary death, then these stairs throngedwith his pensioners, the mighty Burke pushing through, Reynolds with hisear-trumpet, and big 'blinking Sam, ' and last of all the unknown grave, God knows where, by the chapel wall. Poor little Oliver! They say itwas a women that was 'in' at the end. No more of the like now, no moredebts, no more vain 'talk like poor Poll:' the light's out--all stilland dark. "

. . . "How's my little Nannie? Does she still keep a menagerie for sickdogs and lost cats? And how's the parson-gull with the broken wing, and does he still strut like Parson Kis-sack in his surplice? I was atWestminster Hall yesterday. It was the great trial of Mitchell, M. P. , who forged his father's will. Stevens defended--bad, bad, bad, smirkingall the while with small facetiæ. But Denman's summing up--oh! oh! suchinsight, such acuteness! It was wonderful. I had a seat in the gallery. The grand old hall was a thrilling scene--the dense throng, the upturnedfaces, the counsel, the judges, the officers of court, and then thewindows, the statues, the echo of history that made every stone andrafter live--Oh, Nan, Nan, listen to me! If I live I'll sit on the benchthere some day--I will, so help me God!"

When Philip had finished his father's letters, he was on the heights, and poor Kate was left far below, out of reach and out of sight. Hitherto his ambitions had been little more than the pale shadow of hisfather's hopes, but now they were his own realities. 

XXII. 

Next morning the letter came from Cæsar inviting him to the Melliah, and then he thought of Kate more tenderly. She would suffer, she wouldcry--it would make his heart bleed to see her; but must he for a fewtears put by the aims of a lifetime? If only Pete had been alive!If only Pete were yet to come home! He grew hot and ashamed when heremembered the time, so lately past, when the prayer of his secret heartwould have been different. It was so easy now to hate himself for suchevil impulses. 

Philip decided to go to the Melliah. It would give him the chance hewanted of breaking off the friendship finally. More than friendshipthere had never been, except secretly, and that could not count. He knewhe was deceiving himself; he felt an uneasy sense of loss of honour anda sharp pang of tender love as often as Kate's face rose up before him. 

On the day of the Melliah he set off early, riding by way of St. John'sthat he might inquire at Kirk Michael about the Deemster. . He found thegreat man's house a desolate place. The gate was padlocked, and he hadto clamber over it; the acacias slashed above him going down the path, and the fallen leaves encumbered his feet At the door, which was shut, he rang, and before it was opened to him an old woman put her untidyhead out of a little window at the side. 

"It's scandalous the doings that's here, sir, " she whispered. "TheDempster's gone into 'sterics with the drink, and the lil farmer fellow, Billiam Cowley, is over and giving him as much as he wants, and drivingeverybody away. "

"Can I speak to him?" said Philip. 

"Billiam? It isn't fit. He'll blackguard you mortal, and the Dempsterhimself is past it. Just sitting with the brandy and drinking anddrinking, and ateing nothing; but that dirt brought up on the Curraghshouting for beefstakes morning and night, and having his dinner laid ona beautiful new white sheet as clane as a bed. "

From the ambush of a screen before an open door, Philip looked into theroom where the Deemster was killing himself. The window shutters were upto keep out the daylight; candles were burning in the necks of bottleson the mantelpiece; a fire smouldered in a grate littered with paperand ashes; a coarse-featured man was eating ravenously at the table, a chop-bone in his fingers, and veins like cords moving on his lowforehead--and the Deemster himself, judge of his island since the deathof Iron Christian, was propped up in a chair, with a smoking glass on astool beside him, and a monkey perched on his shoulder. "Turn them out, neck and crop, Dempster; the women are all for robbing a man, " said thefellow; and a husky, eaten-out voice replied to him with a grunt and alaugh, "H'm! That's only what you're doing yourself, then, you rascal, and if I'd let the right one in long ago you wouldn't be here now--norI neither, would I, Jacko?" The tail of the monkey flapped on theDeemster's breast, and Philip crept away with a shiver. 

The sun was shining brightly outside the house, and the air was freshand sweet. Remounting his horse, which was neighing and stamping at thegate, Philip rode hard to bring back a sense of warmth. At the "Fairy"he alighted and put up, and saw Grannie, who was laying tables in themill. 

"I'm busy as Trap's wife, " she said, "and if you were the Govenar itselfyou wouldn't get lave to spake to me now. Put a sight on himself on thefield yonder, the second meadow past the Bishop's bridge, and come backwith the boys to supper. "

Philip found the Melliah field. Two-score workers, men, women, andchildren, a cart and a pair of horses were scattered over it. Where thecorn had been cut the day before the stubble had been woven overnightinto a white carpet of cobwebs, which neither sun nor step of man hadyet dispelled. There were the smell of the straw, the cawing of therooks in the glen, the hissing to the breeze of the barley stillstanding, the swish of the scythe and the gling of the sickle, thebending and rising of the shearers, the swaying of the binders draggingthe sheaves, the gluck of the wheels of the cart, the merry head of achild peeping out of a stook like a young bird out of the broken egg, and a girl in scarlet, whom Philip recognised, standing at the farthesthedge, and waving the corn band with which she was tieing to some onebelow. 

Philip vaulted into the field, and was instantly seized by every womanworking in it, except Kate, tied up with the straw ropes, and onlyliberated on paying the toll of an intruder. 

"But I've come to work, " he protested, and Cæsar who, was plotting thelast rigs of the harvest, paired him with Kate and gave him a sickle. "He's a David, he'll smite down his thousands/, " said Cæsar. Thencocking his eye up the field, "the Ballabeg for leader, " he cried, "he'sa plate-ribbed man. And let ould Maggie take the butt along with him. Jemmy the Red for the after-rig, and Robbie to follow Mollie with thecart Now ding-dong, boys, bend your backs and down with it. "

Kate had not looked up when Philip came into the field, but she hadseen him come, and she gave a little start when he took his place in hisshirt-sleeves beside her. He used some conventional phrases which shescarcely answered, and then nothing was heard but the sounds of thesickle and the corn. She worked steadily for some time, and he lookedup at her at intervals with her round bare arms and supple waist andfirm-set foot and tight red stocking. Two butterflies tumbling in theair played around her sun bonnet and a lady-clock settled on her wrist. 

Time was called for rest as Nancy Joe came through the gate bringing abasket with bottles and a can. 

"The belly's a malefactor that forgets former kindness, " said Cæsar;"ate and drink. "

Then the men formed a group about the ale, the older women drank tea, the children making bands were given butter-milk, and the younger womenwith babes went cooing and clucking to the hedge where the little oneslay nuzzled up and unattended, some asleep in shawls, some awake ontheir backs and grabbing at the wondrous forests of marguerites toweringup beside them, and all crying with one voice at sight of the breast, which the mothers were as glad to give as they to take. 

The rooks cawed in the glen, there was a hot hum of bees, and a companyof starlings passed overhead, glittering in the sunlight like the scalesof a herring. 

"They're taiching us a lesson, " said Cæsar. "They're going together overthe sea; but there's someones on earth would sooner go to heaven itselfsolitary, and take joy if they found themselves all alone and the cockof the walk there. "

Kate and Philip stood and talked where they had been shearing quietly, simply, without apparent interest, and meanwhile the workers discussedthem. 

First the men: "He works his siggle like a man though. "--"A stout boyanyway; give him practice and he'd shear many a man in bed. " Then thewomen: "She's looking as bright as a pewter pot, and she's all so prettyas the Govenar's daughter too. "--"Got a good heart, though. Only lastweek she had word of Pete, and look at the scarlet perricut. " Finallyboth men and women: "Lave her alone, mother; it's that Rossthat's wasting the woman. "--"Well, if I was a man I'd know mytack. "--"Wouldn't trust. It comes with Cæsar anyway; the Lord prospershim; she'll have her pickings. Nothing bates religion in this world. It's like going to the shop with an ould Manx shilling--you get yourpen'orth of taffy and twelve pence out. "--"Lend's a hand with the joughthen, boy. None left? Aw, Cæsar's wonderful religious, but there's nevermuch lavings of ale with him. "

Cæsar was striding through the stooks past Philip and Kate. 

"Will it thrash well, Mr. Cregeen?" said Philip. 

"Eight bolls to the acre maybe, but no straw to spake of, sir, " saidCæsar. "Now, boys, let the weft rest on the last end, finish your work. "

The workers fell to again, and the sickle of the leader sang round hishead as he hacked and blew and sent off his breath in spits until thegreen grass springing up behind him left only a triangular corner ofyellow corn. Fore-rig and the after-rig took a tussle together, andpresently nothing was standing of all the harvest of Glenmooar but onesmall shaft of ears a yard wide or less. Then the leaders stopped, andall the shearers of the field came up and cast down their sickles intothe soil in a close circle, making a sheaf of crescent moons. 

"Now for the Melliah, " said Cæsar. "Who's to be Queen?"

There was a cry for Kate, and she sailed forward buoyantly, fresh still, warm with her work, and looking like the afterglow from the sunset inthe lengthening shadows from the west. 

"Strike them from their legs, Kirry, " cried Nancy Joe, and Kate drew upone of the sickles, swept her left arm over the standing corn, and at asingle stroke of her right brought the last ears to the ground. 

Then there was a great shout. "Hurrah for the Mel-liah!" It rang throughthe glen and echoed in the mountains. Grannie heard it in the valley, and said to herself, "Cæsar's Melliah's took. "

"Well, we've gathered the ripe corn, praise His name, " said Cæsar, "butwhat shall be done at the great gathering for unripe Christians?"

Kate lifted her last sheaf and tied it about with a piece of blueribbon, and Philip plucked the cushag (the ragwort) from the hedge, andgave it her to put in the band. 

This being done; the Queen of the Melliah stepped back, feeling Philip'seyes following her, while the oldest woman shearer came forward. 

"I've a crown-piece, here that's being lying in my pocket long enough, Joney, " said Cæsar with an expansive air, and he gave the woman heraccustomed dole. 

She was a timid, shrinking creature, having a face walled with wrinkles, and wearing a short blue petticoat, showing heavy dull boots like aman's, and thick black stockings. 

Then the young fellows went racing over the field, vaulting the stooks, stretching a straw rope for the girls to jump over, heightening andtightening it to trip them up, and slacking and twirling it to make themskip. And the girls were falling with a laugh, and leaping up againand flying off like the dust, tearing their frocks and dropping theirsun-bonnets as if the barley grains they had been reaping had got intotheir blood. 

In the midst of this maddening frolic, while Cæsar and the others werekneeling behind the barley stack, Kate snatched Philip's hat from hishead and shot like a gleam into the depths of the glen. 

Philip dragged up his coat by one of its arms and fled after her. 

XXIII. 

Sulby Glen is winding, soft, rich, sweet, and exquisitely beautiful. A thin thread of blue water, laughing, babbling, brawling, whooping, leaping, gliding, and stealing down from the mountains; great bouldersworn smooth and ploughed hollow by the wash of ages; wet moss and lichenon the channel walls; deep, cool dubbs; tiny reefs; little cascades ofboiling foam; lines of trees like sentinels on either side, making thelight dim through the overshadowing leafage; gaunt trunks torn up bywinds and thrown across the stream with their heads to the feet of theirfellows; the golden fuschia here, the green trammon there; now and againa poor old tholthan, a roofless house, with grass growing on its kitchenfloor; and over all the sun peering down with a hundred eyes into thedark and slumberous gloom, and the breeze singing somewhere up in thetree-tops to the voice of the river below. 

Kate had run out on the stem of one of the fallen trees, and therePhilip found her, over the middle of the stream, laughing, dancing, waving his hat in one hand, and making sweeping bows to her reflectionin the water below. 

"Come back, " he cried. "You terrible girl, you'll fall. Sit downthere--don't torment me, sit down. "

After a curtsey to him she turned her attention to her skirts, woundthem about her ankles, sat on the trunk, and dangled her shapely feethalf an inch over the surface of the stream. 

Then Philip had time to observe that the other end of the tree didnot reach the opposite bank, but dipped short into the water. So hebarricaded his end by sitting on it, and said triumphantly: "My hat, ifyou please. "

Kate looked and gave a little cry of alarm and then a chuckle, and thenshe said--

"You thought you'd caught me, didn't you? You can't, though, " and shedropped on to a boulder from which she might have skipped ashore. 

"I can't, can't I?" said Philip; and he twisted a smaller boulder on hisside, so that Kate was surrounded by water and cut off from the bank. "My hat now, madam, " he said with majestic despotism. 10

She would not deliver it, so he pretended to leave her where she was. "Good-bye, then; good evening, " he cried over the laughter of thestream, and turned away a step bareheaded. 

A moment later his confidence was dashed. When he turned his head backKate had whipped off her shoes and stockings, and was ramming the oneinside the other. 

"What are you doing?" cried Philip. 

"Catch this--and this, " she said, flinging the shoes across to him. Thenclapping his straw hat on the crown of her sun-bonnet, she tucked up herskirts with both hands and waded ashore. 

"What a clever boy you are! You thought you'd caught me again, didn'tyou?" she said. 

"I've caught your shoes, anyway, " said Philip, "and until you give me myhat I'll stick to them. "

She was on the shingle, but in her bare feet, and could not make a step. 

"My shoes, please?" she pleaded. 

"My hat first, " he answered. 

"Take it. "

"No; you must give it me. "

"Never! I'll sit here all night first, " said Kate. 

"I'm willing, " said Philip. 

They were sitting thus, the one bare-headed, the other with bare feet, and on the same stone, as if seats in the glen were scarce, when therecame the sound of a hymn from the field they had left, and then it wasagreed by way of mutual penalty that Kate should put on Philip's hat oncondition that Philip should be required to put on Kate's shoes. 

At the next moment Philip, suddenly sobered, was reproaching himselffiercely. What was he doing? He had come to tell Kate that he shouldcome no more, and this was how he had begun! Yesterday he was inDouglas reading his father's letters, and here he was to-day, forgettinghimself, his aims in life, his duties, his obligations--everything. "Philip, " he thought, "you are as weak as water. Give up your plans; youare not fit for them; abandon your hopes--they are too high for you. "

"How solemn we are all at once!" said Kate. 

The hymn (a most doleful strain, dragged out to death on every note) wasstill coming from the Melliah field, and she added, slyly, shyly, witha mixture of boldness and nervousness, "Do you think this world is sovery bad, then?"

"Well--aw--no, " he faltered, and looking up he met her eye, and theyboth laughed. 

"It's all nonsense, isn't it?" she said, and they began to walk down theglen. 

"But where are we going?"

"Oh, we'll come out this way just as well. "

The scutch grass, the long rat-tail, and the golden cushag were swishingagainst his riding-breeches and her print dress. "I must tell her now, "he thought. In the narrow places she went first, and he followed with alagging step, trying to begin. "Better prepare her, " he thought. But hecould think of no commonplace leading up to what he wished to say. 

Presently, through a tangle of wild fuchsia, there was a smell ofburning turf in the air and the sound of milking into a pail, and then avoice came up surprisingly as from the ground, saying:

"Aisy on the thatch, Miss Cregeen, ma'am. "

It was old Joney, the shearer, milking her goat, and Kate had steppedon to the roof of her house without knowing it, for the little place waslow and opened from the water's edge and leaned against the bank. 

Philip made some conventional inquiries, and she answered that she hadbeen thirty years there, and had one son living with her, and he was animbecile. 

"There was once a flock at me, and I was as young as you are then, miss, and all as happy; but they're laving me one by one, except this one, andhe isn't wise, poor boy. "

Philip tried to steel his heart. "It is cruel, " he thought, "it willhurt her; but what must be, must be. " She began to sing and wentcarolling down the glen, keeping two paces in front of him. He followedlike an assassin meditating the moment to strike. "He is going to saysomething, " she thought, and then she sang louder. 

"Kate, " he called huskily. 

But she only clapped her hands, and cried in a voice of delight, "Theecho! Here's the echo! Let's shout to it. "

Her kindling features banished his purpose for the time, and hedelivered himself to her play. Then she called up the gill, "Ec--ho!Ec--ho!" and listened, but there was no response, and she said, "Itwon't answer to its own name. What shall I call?"

"Oh, anything, " said Philip. 

"Phil--ip! Phil--ip!" she called, and then said pettishly, "No, Philipwon't hear me either. " She laughed. "He's always so stupid though, andperhaps he's asleep. "

"More this way, " said Philip. "Try now. "

"You try. "

Philip took up the call. "Kate!" he shouted, and back came the answer, _Ate!_ "Kate--y!"--_Ate--y_. 

"Ah! how quick! Katey's a good girl. Hark how she answers you, " saidKate. 

They walked a few steps, and Kate called again, "Philip!" There was noanswer. "Philip is stubborn; he won't have anything to do with me, " saidKate. 

Then Philip called a second time, "Katey!" And back came the echo asbefore. "Well, that's too bad. Katey is--yes, she's actually _following_you!"

Philip's courage oozed out of him. "Not yet, " he thought. _Traa-dy-liooar_--time enough. "After supper, when everybody is going!Outside the mill, in the half light of candles within and darknesswithout! It will sound so ordinary then, 'Good-bye! Haven't you heardthe news? Auntie Nan is reconciled at last to leaving Ballure andjoining me in Douglas. ' That's it; so simple, so commonplace. "

The light was now coming between the trees on the closing west in longswords of sunset red. They could hear the jolting of the laden cart onits way down the glen. The birds were fairly rioting overhead, and allsorts of joyous sounds filled the air. Underfoot there were long fernsand gorse, which caught at her crinkling dress sometimes, and then heliberated her and they laughed. A trailing bough of deadly nightshadewas hanging from the broken head of an old ash stump, whose wasted feetwere overgrown by two scarlet-tipped toadstools, and she plucked a longtendril of it and wound it about her head, tipping her sun-bonnet back, and letting the red berries droop over her dark hair to her face. Thenshe began to sing, O were I monarch o' the globe, Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign. 

Radiant gleams shot out of her black pupils, and flashes of love likelightning passed from her eye to his. 

Then he tried to moralise. "Ah!" he said, out of the gravity of hiswisdom, "if one could only go on for ever like this, living from minuteto minute! But that's the difference between a man and a woman. A womanlives in the world of her own heart. If she has interests, they centrethere. But a man has his interests outside his affections. He iscompelled to deny himself, to let the sweetest things go by. "

Kate began to laugh, and Philip ended by laughing too. 

"Look!" she cried, "only look. "

On the top of the bank above them a goat was skirmishing. He was aridiculous fellow; sometimes cropping with saucy jerks, then kicking uphis heels, as if an invisible imp had pinched him, then wagging his rumpand laughing in his nostrils. 

"As I was saying, " said Philip, "a man has to put by the pleasures oflife. Now here's myself, for example. I am bound, do you know, by a kindof duty--a sort of vow made to the dead, I might say------"

"I'm sure he's going to say something, " thought Kate. The voice of hisheart was speaking louder and quicker than his halting tongue. She sawthat a blow was coming, and looked about for the means to ward it off. 

"The fairy's dubb!" she cried suddenly, and darted from his side to thewater's edge. 

It was a little round pool, black as ink, lying quiet and apparentlymotionless under a noisy place where the waters swirled and churned overblack moss, and the stream ran into the dark. Philip had no choice butto follow her. 

"Cut me a willow! Your penknife! Quick, sir, quick! Not that oldbranch--a sapling. There, that's it. Now you shall hear me tell my ownfortune. "

"An ordeal is it?" said Philip. 

"Hush! Be quiet, still, or little Phonodoree wont listen. Hush, nowhush!"

With solemn airs, but a certain sparkle in her eyes, she went down onher knees by the pool, stretched her round arm over the water, passedthe willow bough slowly across its surface, and recited her incantation:

 Willow bough, willow bough, which of the four, Sink, circle, or swim, or come floating ashore? Which is the fortune you keep for my life, Old maid or young mistress or widow or wife?

With the last word she flung the willow bough on to the pool, and satback on her heels to watch it as it moved slowly with the motion of thewater. 

"Bravo!" cried Philip. 

"Be quiet. It's swimming. No, it's coming ashore. "

"It's wife, Kate. No, it's widow. No, it's----"

"Do be serious. Oh, dear! it's going--yes, it's going round. Not thateither. No, it has--yes, it has------oh!"

"Sunk!" said Philip, laughing and clapping his hands. "You're doomed tobe an old maid, Kate. Phonodoree says so. "

"Cruel Brownie! I'm vexed that I bothered with him, " said Kate, droppingher lip. Then nodding to her reflection in the water where the willowbough had disappeared, she said, "Poor little Katey! He might have givenyou something else. Anything but that dear, eh?"

"What, " laughed Philip, "crying? Because Phonodoree--never!"

Kate leapt up with averted face. "What nonsense you are talking!" shesaid. 

"There are tears in your eyes, though, " said Philip. 

"No wonder, either. You're so ridiculous. And if I'm meant for an oldmaid, you're meant for an old bachelor--and quite right too!"

"Oh, it is, is it?"

"Yes, indeed. You've got no more heart than a mushroom, for you're allhead and legs, and you're going to be just as bald some day. "

"I am, am I, mistress?"

"If I were you, Philip, I should hire myself out for a scarecrow, andthen having nothing under your clothes wouldn't so much matter. "

"It wouldn't, wouldn't it?" said Philip. 

She was shying off at a half circle; he was beating round her. 

"But you're nearly as old as Methuselah already, and what you'll be whenyou're a man----"

"Lookout!"

She made him an arch curtsey and leapt round a tree, and cried from theother side, "I know. A squeaking old croaker, with the usual old song, 'Deed yes, friends, this world is a vale of sin and misery. ' The men'sthe misery and the women's the sin----"

"You rogue, you!" cried Philip. 

He made after her, and she fled, still speaking, "What do you think agirl wants with a----Oh! Oh! Oo!"

Her tirade ended suddenly. She had plunged into a bed of the pricklygorse, and was feeling in twenty places at once what it was to wear lowshoes and thin stockings. 

"With a Samson, eh?" cried Philip, striding on in his riding breeches, and lifting the captured creature in his arms. "Why, to carry her, youtorment, to carry her through the gorse like this. "

"Ah!" she said, turning her face over his shoulder, and tickling hisneck with her breath. 

Her hair caught in a tree, and fell in a dark shower over his breast. Heset her on her feet; they took hands, and went carolling down the glentogether:

"The brightest jewel in my crown, Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. "

The daylight lingered as if loth to leave them. There was the flutteringof wings overhead, and sometimes the last piping of birds. The windwandered away, and left their voices sovereign of all the air. 

Then there came a distant shout; the cheer of the farm people onreaching home with the Melliah. . It awakened Philip as from a fit ofintoxication. 

"This is madness, " he thought. "What am I doing?" "He is going to speaknow, " she told herself. 

Her gaiety shaded off into melancholy, and her melancholy burst intowild gaiety again. The night had come down, the moon had risen, thestars had appeared. She crept closer to Philip's side, and began totell him the story of a witch. They were near to the house the witch hadlived in. There it was--that roofless cottage--that tholthan under thedeep trees like a dungeon. 

"Have you never heard of her, Philip? No? The one they called theDeemster's lady?"

"What Deemster?" said Philip. 

"This one, Deemster Mylrea, who is said to be dying. "

"He is dying; he is killing himself; I saw him to-day, ' said Philip. 

"'Well, she was the blacksmith's daughter, and he left her, and she wentmad and cursed him, and said she was his wife though they hadn't been tochurch, and he should never marry anybody else. Then her father turnedher out, and she came up here all alone, and there was a baby, and theywere saying she killed it, and everybody was afraid of her. And all thetime her boy was making himself a great, great man until he got to beDeemster. But he never married, never, though times and times peoplewere putting this lady on him and then that; but when they told thewitch, she only laughed and said, 'Let him, he'll get lave enough!' Atlast she was old and going on two sticks, and like to die any day, andthen he crept out of his big house unknown to any one and stole uphere to the woman's cottage. And when she saw the old man she said, 'Soyou've come at last, boy; but you've been keeping me long, bogh, you'vebeen keeping me long. ' And then she died. Wasn't that strange?"

Her dark eyes looked up at him and her mouth quivered. 

"Was it witchcraft, then?" said Philip. 

"Oh, no; it was only because he was her husband. That was the hold shehad of him. He was tempted away by a big house and a big name, but he_had_ to come back to her. And it's the same with a woman. Once a girlis the wife of somebody, she _must_ cling to him, and if she is everfalse she must return. Something compels her. That's if she's really hiswife--really, truly. How beautiful, isn't it? Isn't it beautiful?"

"Do you think that, Kate? Do you think a man, like a woman, would clingthe closer?"

"He couldn't help himself, Philip. "

Philip tried to say it was only a girl's morality, but her confidenceshamed him. She slipped her moist fingers into his hand again. They wereclose by the deserted tholthan, and she was creeping nearer and nearerto his side. A bat swirled above their heads and she made a faint cry. Then a cat shot from under a gooseberry bush, and she gave a littlescream. She was breathing irregularly. He could smell the perfume of herfallen hair. He was in agony of pain and delight. His heart was leapingin his bosom; his eyes were burning. 

"She's right, " he thought. "Love is best. It is everything. It is thecrown of life. Shall I give it up for the Dead Sea fruit of worldlysuccess? Think of the Deemster! Wifeless, childless, living solitary, dying alone, unregretled, unmourned. What is the wickedness you areplotting? Your father is dead, you can do him neither good nor harm. This girl is alive. She loves you. Love her. Let the canting hypocritesprate as they will. "

She had disengaged her hand, and was creeping away from him in the halfdarkness, treading softly and going off like a gleam. 

"Kate!" he called. 

He heard her laughter, he heard the drowsy hum of the gill, he couldsmell the warm odour of the gorse bushes. 

"But this is madness, " he thought. "This is the fever of an hour. Yieldnow and I am ruined for life. The girl has come between me and my aims, my vows, my work--everything. She has tempted me, and I am as weak aswater. "

"Kate!"

She did not answer. 

"Come here this moment, Kate. I have something to say to you. "

"Bite!" she said, coming back and holding an apple to his lips. She hadplucked it in the overgrown garden. 

"Listen! I'm leaving Ramsey for good--don't intend to practise in thenorthern courts any longer--settling in Douglas--best work lies there, you see--worst of it is--we shan't meet again soon--not very soon, youknow--not for years, perhaps----"

He began by stammering, and went on stuttering, blurting out his words, and trembling at the sound of his own voice. 

"Philip, you must not go!" she cried. "I'm sorry, Kate, very sorry. Shall always remember so tenderly--not to say fondly--the happy boy andgirl days together. "

"Philip, Philip, you must not go--you cannot go--you shall not go!"

He could see her bosom heaving under her loose red bodice. She took holdof his arm and dragged at it. 

"Won't you spare me? Will you shame me to death? Must I tell you? If youwon't speak, I will. You cannot leave me, Philip, because--because--whatdo I care?--because I love you!"

"Don't say that, Kate!"

"I love you, Philip--I love you--I love you!"

"Would to God I had never been born!"

"But I will show you how sweet it is to be alive. Take me, take me--I amyours!"

Her upturned face seemed to flash. He staggered like one seized withgiddiness. It was a thing of terror to behold her. Still he struggled. "Though apart, we shall remember each other, Kate. "

"I don't want to remember. I want to have you with me. "

"Our hearts will always be together. "

"Come to me then, Philip, come to me!"

"The purest part of our hearts--our souls----"

"But I want _you!_ Will you drive a girl to shame herself again? I want_you_, Philip! I want your eyes that I may see them every day; andyour hair, that I may feel it with my hands; and your lips--can I helpit?--yes, and your lips, that I may kiss and kiss them!"

"Kate! Kate! Turn your eyes away. Don't look at me like that!" She wasfighting for her life. It was to be now or never. 

"If you won't come to me, I'll go to you!" she cried; and then shesprang upon him, and all grew confused, the berries of the nightshadewhipped his forehead, and the moon and the stars went out. 

"My love! My darling! My girl!"

"You won't go now?" she sobbed. 

"God forgive me, I cannot. "

"Kiss me. I feel your heart beating. You are mine--mine--mine! Say youwon't go now!"

"God forgive us both!"

"Kiss me again, Philip! Don't despise me that I love you better thanmyself!"

She was weeping, she was laughing, her heart was throbbing up to herthroat. At the next moment she had broken from his embrace and was gone. 

"Kate! Kate!"

Her voice came from the tholthan. 

"Philip!"

When a good woman falls from honour, is it merely that she is a victimof momentary intoxication, of stress of passion, of the fever ofinstinct? No. It is mainly that she is a slave of the sweetest, tenderest, most spiritual and pathetic of all human fallacies--thefallacy that by giving herself to the man she loves she attaches himto herself for ever. This is the real betrayer of nearly all good womenthat are betrayed. It lies at the root of tens of thousands of the casesthat make up the merciless story of man's sin and woman's weakness. Alas! it is only the woman who clings the closer. The impulse of theman is to draw apart. He must conquer it or she is lost. Such is theold cruel difference and inequality of man and woman as nature madethem--the old trick, the old tragedy. 

XXIV. 

Old Mannanin, the magician, according to his wont, had surroundedhis island with mist that day, and, in the helpless void of thingsunrevealed, a steamship bound for Liverpool came with engines slackedsome points north of her course, blowing her fog-horn over thebreathless sea with that unearthly yell which must surely be the soundwhereby the devil summons his legions out of chaos. 

Presently something dropping through the dense air settled for a momenton the damp rope of the companion ladder, and one of the passengersrecognised it. 

"My gough! It's a bird, a sparrow, " he cried. 

At the same moment there was a rustle of wind, the mist lifted, and agreat round shoulder rose through the white gauze, as if it had been theghost of a mountain. 

"That's the Isle of Man, " the passenger shouted, and there was a cryof incredulity. "It's the Calf, I'm telling you, boys. Lave it to me toknow. " And instantly the engines were reversed. 

The passenger, a stalwart fellow, with a look as of pallor under a tawnytan, walked the deck in a fever of excitement, sometimes shouting in acracked voice, sometimes laughing huskily, and at last breaking down ina hoarse gurgle like a sob. 

"Can't you put me ashore, capt'n?"

"Sorry I can't, sir, we've lost time already. "

There was a dog with him, a little, misshappen, ugly creature, and helifted it up in his arms and hugged it, and called it by blusterousswear names, with noises of inarticulate affection. Then he went downto his berth in the second cabin and opened a little box of letters, andtook them out one by one, and leaned up to the port to read them. Hehad read them before, and he knew them by heart, but he traced the lineswith his broad forefinger, and spelled the words one by one. And as hedid so he laughed aloud, and then cried to himself, and then laughedonce more. "She is well and happy, and looking lovely, and, if she doesnot write, don't think she is forgetting you. "

"God bless her. And God bless him, too. God bless them both!"

He went up on deck again, for he could not rest in one place long. Therewas a breeze now, and he filled his lungs and blew and blew. The islandwas dying down over the sea in a pale light of silver grey. An enginemanand a stoker were leaning over the bulwark to cool themselves. 

"Happy enough now, sir, eh?"

"Happy as a sand-boy, mate, only mortal hungry. Tiffin you say? Aw, theheart has its hunger same as anything else, and mine has been on shortcommons these five years and better. See that island there, lying likea salmon gull atop of the water? Looks as if she might dip under it, doesn't she? That's my home, my native land, as the man says, and onlythree weeks ago I wasn't looking to see the thundering ould thing again;but God is good, you see, and I am middling fit for all. I'm a Manxmanmyself, mate, and I've got a lil Manx woman that's waiting for meyonder. It's only an ould shirt I'm bringing her to patch, as the sayingis, but she'll be that joyful you never seen. It's bad to take a womanby surprise, though--these nervous creatures--'sterics, you see--I'llsend her a tally graph from the Stage. My sakes! the joy she'll betaking of that boy, too! He'll be getting sixpence for himself anda drink of butter-milk. It's always the way of these poor lilthings--can't stand no good news at all--people coming home and thelike--not much worth, these women--crying reglar--can't help it. Well, you see, they're tender-hearteder than us, and when anybody's been fiveyears. . . Be gough, we're making way, though! The island's going under, for sure. Or is it my eyes that isn't so clear since my bit of abullet-wound! Aw, God is good, tremen-jous!"

The breaking voice stopped suddenly, and the engine-men turned about, but the passenger was stumbling down the cabin stairs. 

"If ever a man came back from the dead it's that one, " said both mentogether. 

PART III. MAN AND WOMAN

I. 

Philip was vanquished, and he knew it, but he was not daunted, he wasnot distressed. To have resisted the self-abandonment of Kate's lovewould have been monstrous. Therefore, he had done no wrong, and therewas nothing to be ashamed of. But when he reached Ballure he did notdash into Auntie Nan's room, according to his wont, though a lightwas burning there, and he could hear the plop and click of thread andneedle; he crept upstairs to his own, and sat down to write a letter. Itwas the first of his love letters. 

"I shall count the days, the hours, and the minutes until we meet again, my darling, and I shall be constantly asking what time it is. And seeingwe must be so much apart, let us contrive a means of being together, nevertheless. Listen!--I whisper the secret in your ear. To-morrow nightand every night eat your supper at eight o'clock exactly; I will dothe same, and so we shall be supping in each other's company, my littlewife, though twenty miles divide us. If any body asks me to supper, I will refuse in order that I may sup with you. 'I am promised to afriend, ' I'll say, and then I'll sit down in my rooms alone, but youwill be with me. "

Tingling with delight, he wrote this letter to Kate, though less thanan hour parted from her, and went out to post it. He was going upstairsagain, steadily, on tiptoe, his head half aside and his face over hisshoulder, when Auntie Nan's voice came from the blue room--"Philip!"

He returned with a sheepish look, and a sense, never felt before, ofbeing naked, so to speak. But Auntie Nan did not look at him. She wasworking a lamb on a sampler, and she reached over the frame to takesomething out of a drawer and hand it to him. It was a medallion of ayoung child--a boy, with long fair curls like a girl's, and a face likesunshine. 

"Was it father, Auntie?"

"Yes; a French painter who came ashore with Thurlot painted it forgrandfather. "

Philip laid it on the table. He was more than ever sure that Auntie Nanhad heard something. Such were her tender ways of warning him. He couldnot be vexed. 

"I'm sleepy to-night, Auntie, and you look tired too. You've beenwaiting up for me again. Now, you really must not. Besides, it limitsone's freedom. "

"That's nothing, Philip. You said you would come home after calling onthe poor Deemster, and so----"

"He's in a bad way, Auntie. Drink--delirium--such a wreck. Well, goodnight!"

"Did you read the letters, dear?"

"Oh, yes. Father's letters. Yes, I read them. Good night. "

"Aren't they beautiful? Haven't they the very breath of ambition andenthusiasm? But poor father! How soon the brightness melted away! Henever repined, though. Oh, no, never. Indeed, he used to laugh and jokeat our dreams and our castles in the air. 'You must do it all yourself, Nannie; you shall have all the cakes and ale. ' Yes, when he was a dyingman he would joke like that. But sometimes he would grow serious, andthen he would say, 'Give little Philip some for all. He'll deserve itmore than me. Oh, God, ' he would say, 'let me think to myself when I'm_there_, you've missed the good things of life, but your son has gotthem; you are here, but he is on the heights; lie still, thou pooraspiring heart, lie still in your grave and rest. '"

Philip felt like a bird struggling in the meshes of a net. 

"My father was a poet, Auntie, trying to be a man of the world. That wasthe real mischief in his life, if you think of it. "

Auntie Nan looked up with her needle at poise above the sampler, andsaid in a nervous voice, "The real mischief of your father's life, Philip, was love--what they call love. But love is not that. Love ispeace and virtue, and right living, and that is only madness and frenzy, and when people wake up from it they wake up as from a nightmare. Mentalk of it as a holy thing--it is unholy. Books are written in praise ofit--I would have such books burnt. When anybody falls to it, he is likea blind man who has lost his guide, tottering straight to the precipice. Women fall to it too. Yes, good women as well as good men; I have seenthem tempted----"

Philip was certain of it now. Some one had been prying upon him atSulby. He was angry, and his anger spent itself on Auntie Nan in atorrent of words. "You are wrong, Aunt Anne, quite wrong. Love is theone lovely thing in life. It is beauty, it is poetry. Call it passion ifyou will--what would the world be like without it? A place where everyhuman heart would be an island standing alone; a place without children, without joy, without merriment, without laughter. No, no; Heaven hasgiven us love, and we are wrong when we try to put it away. We cannotput it away, and when we make the attempt we are punished for our prideand arrogance. It ought to be enough for us to let heaven decide whetherwe are to be great men or little men, and to decide for ourselveswhether we are to be good men and happy men. And the greatest happinessof life is love. Heaven would have to work a miracle to enable us tolive without it. But Heaven does not work such a miracle, because thegreatest miracle of heaven is love itself. "

The needle hand of Auntie Nan was trembling above her sampler, and herlips were twitching. 

"You are a young man yet, Philip, " she faltered, "but I am an old ladynow, dear, and I have seen the fruits of the intoxication you callpassion. Oh, have I not, have I not? It wrecks lives, ruins prospects, breaks up homes, sets father against son, and brother againstbrother----"

Philip would give her no chance. He was tramping across the room, andhe burst out with, "You are wrong again, Auntie. You are always wrongin these matters, because you are always thinking from the particularto the general--you are always thinking of my father. What you have beencalling my father's fall was really his fate. He deserved it. If he hadbeen fit for the high destiny he aspired to--if he had been fit to be ajudge, he would not have fallen. That he did fall is proof enough thathe was not fit. God did not intend it. My father's aspirations were notthe call of a stern vocation, they were mere poetic ambition. If he hadever by great ill-fortune lived to be made Deemster, he would have foundhimself out, and the island would have found him out, and you yourselfwould have found him out, and all the world would have been undeceived. As a poet he might have been a great man, but as a Deemster he must havebeen a mockery, a hypocrite, an impostor, and a sham. "

Auntie Nan rose to her feet with a look of fright on her sweet old face, and something dropped with a clank on to the floor. 

"Oh, Philip, Philip, if I thought you could ever repeat the error----"

But Philip gave her no time to finish. Tossing his disordered hair fromhis forehead, he swung out of the room. 

Being alone, he began to collect himself. Was it, in sober fact, he whohad spoken like that? Of his father too? To Auntie Nan as well? He sawhow it was; he had been speaking of his father, but he had been thinkingof himself; he had been struggling to justify himself, to reconcile, strengthen, and fortify himself. But in doing so he had been breaking anidol, a life-long idol, his own idol and Auntie Nan's. 

He stumbled downstairs in a rush of remorse, and burst again into theroom crying in a broken voice, "Auntie! Auntie!"

But the room was empty; the lamp was turned down; the sampler was pushedaside. Something crunched under his foot, and he stooped and pickedit up. It was the medallion, and it was cracked across. The accidentterrified him. His skin seemed to creep. He felt as if he had trodden onhis father's face. Putting the broken picture into his pocket, he turnedabout like a guilty man and crept silently to bed in the darkness. 

But the morning brought him solace for the pains of the night--itbrought him a letter from Kate. 

"The Melliah is over at long, long last, and I am allowed to be alonewith my thoughts. They sang 'Keerie fu Snaighty' after you left, and'The King can only love his wife, And I can do the sa-a-me, And I can dothe same. ' But there is really nothing to tell you, for nothing happenedof the slightest consequence. Good night! I am going to bed after I haveposted this letter at the bridge. Two hours hence you will appear to mein sleep, unless I lie that long awake to think of you. I generally do. Good-bye, my dear lord and master! You will let me know what you thinkbest to be done. Your difficulties alarm me terribly. You see, dear, wetwo are about to do something so much out of the common. Good night! Ilift my head that you may give me another kiss on the eyes, and here aretwo for yours. "

Then there were empty brackets [ ], which Kate had put her lips to, expecting Philip to do the same. 

II. 

Philip was going into his chambers in Douglas that morning when he cameupon a messenger from Government House in stately intercourse with hisservant. His Excellency begged him to step up to Onchan immediately, andto remain for lunch. 

The Governor's carriage was at the door, and Philip got into it. Hewas not excited; he remembered his agitation at the Governor's formermessage and smiled. On leaving his own rooms he had not forgotten toorder supper for eight o'clock precisely. 

He found the Governor polite and expansive as usual. He was sitting ina room hung round with ponderous portraits of former Governors, most ofthem in frills and ruffles, and one vast picture of King George. 

"You will have heard, " he said, "that our northern Deemster is dead. "

"Is he so?" said Philip. "I saw him at one o'clock yesterday. "

"He died at two?" said the Governor. 

"Poor man, poor man!" said Philip. 

That was all. Not a tremble of the eyelid, not a quiver of the lip. 

"You are aware that the office is a Crown appointment?" said theGovernor. "Applications are made, you know, to the Home Office, butit is probable that my advice may be asked by the Secretary in hisselection. I may, perhaps, be of use to a candidate. "

Philip gave no sign, and the Governor shifted his leg and continued witha smile, "Certainly that appears to be the impression of your brotheradvocates, Mr. Christian; they are about me already, like wasps at aglue-pot. I will not question but you'll soon be one of them. "

Philip made a gesture of protestation, and the Governor waved his handand smiled again. "Oh, I shan't blame you; young men are ambitious. Itis natural that they should wish to advance themselves in life. In yourcase, too, if I may say so, there is the further spur of a desire torecover the position your family once held, and lately lost through themistake or misfortune of your father. "

Philip bowed gravely, but said nothing. 

"That, no doubt, " said the Governor, "would be a fact in your favour. The great fact against you would be that you are still so young. Let mesee, is it eight-and twenty?"

"Twenty-six, " said Philip. 

"No more? Only six-and-twenty? And then, successful as your career hasbeen thus far--perhaps I should say distinguished or even brilliant--youare still unsettled in life. "

Philip asked if his Excellency meant that he was still unmarried. 

"And if I do, " the Governor replied, with pretended severity, "and if Ido, don't smile too broadly, young man. You ought to know by this timethat the personal equation counts for something in this old-fashionedisland of yours. Now, the late Deemster was an example which it wouldbe perilous to repeat. If it were repeated, I know who would hear ofthe blunder every day of his life, and it wouldn't be the Home Secretaryeither. Deemster Mylrea was called upon to punish the crimes of drink, and he was himself a drunkard; to try the offences of sensuality, and hewas himself a sensualist. "

Philip could not help it--he gave a little crack of laughter. 

"To be sure, " said the Governor hastily, "you are in no danger of hisexcesses; but you will not be a safe candidate to recommend untilyou have placed yourself to all appearances out of the reach of them. 'Beware of these Christians, ' said the great Derby to his son; andpardon me if I revive the warning to a Christian himself. "

The colour came strong into Philip's face. Even at that moment he feltangry at so coarse a version of his father's fault. 

"You mean, " said he, "that we are apt to marry unwisely. "

"I do that, " said the Governor. 

"There's no telling, " said Philip, with a faint crack of his fingers;and the Governor frowned a little--the pock-marks seemed to spread. 

"Of course, all this is outside my duty, Mr. Christian--I needn't tellyou that; but I feel an interest in you, and I've done you some servicesalready, though naturally a young man will think he has done everythingfor himself. Ah!" he said, rising from his seat at the sound of a gong, "luncheon is ready. Let us join the ladies. " Then, with one hand onPhilip's shoulder familiarly, "only a word more, Mr. Christian. Sendin your application immediately, and--take the advice of an oldfiddler--marry as soon afterwards as may be. But with your prospectsit would be a sin not to walk carefully. If she's English, so much thebetter; but if she's Manx--take care. "

Philip lunched with the Governor's wife, who told him she remembered hisgrandfather; also with his unmarried daughter, who said she had heardhim speak for the fishermen at Peel. An official "At home, " the last ofthe summer, was to be held in the garden that afternoon, and Philip wasinvited to remain. He did so, and thereby witnessed the assaults of thewasps at the glue-pot. They buzzed about the Governor, they buzzed abouthis wife, they buzzed about his dog and about a tame deer, which tookgrapes from the hands of the guests. 

An elderly gentleman, sitting alone in a carriage, drove up to the lawn. It was Peter Christian Ballawhaine, looking feebler, whiter, and moresplay-footed than before. Philip stepped up to his uncle and offeredhis arm to alight by. But the Ballawhaine brushed it aside and pushedthrough to the Governor, to whom he talked incessantly for some minutesof his son Ross, saying he had sent for him and would like to presenthim to his Excellency. 

If Philip lacked enjoyment of the scene, if his face lacked heart andhappiness, it was not the fault of his host. "Will you not take LadySo-and-so to have tea?" the Governor would say; and presently Philipfound himself in a circle of official wifedom, whose husbands had beenmade Knights by the Queen, and themselves made Ladies by--God knowswhom. The talk was of the late Deemster. 

"Such a life! It's a mercy he lasted so long!"

"A pity, you mean, my dear, not to be hard on him either. "

"Poor thing! He ought to have married. Such a man wants a wife to lookafter him. Don't you think so, Mr. Christian?"

"Why, " said a white-haired dame, "have you never heard of his greatromance?"

"Ah! tell us of that. Who was the lady?"

"The lady----" there was a pause; the white-haired dame coughed, smiled, closed her little ferret eyes, dropped her voice, and said with mockgravity, "The lady was the blacksmith's daughter, dearest. " And thenthere was a merry trill of laughter. 

Philip felt sick, bowed to his hosts, and left. As he was going off, hisuncle intercepted him, holding out both hands. 

"How's this, Philip? You never come to Ballawhaine now. I see! Oh, Isee! Too busy with the women to remember an old man. They're all talkingof you. Putting the comather on them, eh? I know, I know; don't tellme. "

III. 

Philip's way home lay through the town, but he made a circuit of thecountry, across Onchan, so heartsick was he, so utterly choked withbitter feelings. He felt as if all the angels and devils together mustbe making a mock at him. The thing he had worked for through five heavyyears, the end he had aimed at, the goal he had fought for, was hisalready--his for the stretching out of his hand. Yet now that it washis, he could not have it. Oh, the mockery of his fate! Oh, the irony ofhis life! It was shrieking, it was frantic!

Then his bolder spirit seemed to say, "What is all this childish fumingabout? Fortune comes to you with both hands full. Be bold, and you mayhave both the wish of your soul and the desire of your heart--both theDeemster-ship and Kate. "

It was impossible to believe that. If he married Kate, the Governorwould not recommend him as Deemster. Had he not admitted that hestood in some fear of the public opinion of the island? And was it notconceivable that, besides the unselfish interest which the Governorhad shown in him, there was even a personal one that would operate morepowerfully than fear of the old-fashioned Manx conventions to preventany recommendation of the husband of the wrong woman? At one moment avague memory rose before Philip, as he crossed the fields, of the lunchat Government House, of the Governor's wife and daughter, of theircourtesy and boundless graciousness. At the next moment he had drawn upsharply, with pangs of self-contempt, hating himself, loathing himself, swearing at himself for a mean-souled ingrate, as he kicked up the grassand the turf beneath it But the idea had taken root. He could not helpit; the Governor's interest went for nothing in his reckoning. 

"What a fool you are, Philip, " something seemed to whisper out of thedarkest corner of his conscience; "take the Deemstership first, andmarry Kate afterwards. " But it was impossible to think of that either. Say it could be done by any arts of cunning or duplicity, what then?Then there were the high walls of custom and prejudice to surmount. Philip remembered the garden-party, and saw that they could never besurmounted. The Deemster who slapped the conventions in the face wouldsuffer for it. He would be taboo to half the life of the island--inpublic an official, in private a recluse. An icy picture rose before hismind's eye of the woman who would be his wife in her relations withthe ladies he had just left. She might be their superior in education, certainly in all true manners, and in natural grace and beauty, insweetness and charm, their mistress beyond a dream of comparison. But they would never forget that she was the daughter of a countryinnkeeper, and every little cobble in the rickety pyramid, even from thedaughter of the innkeeper in the town, would look down on her as from athrone. 

He could see them leaving their cards at his door and driving hurriedlyoff. They must do that much. It was the bitter pill which the Deemster'sdoings made them swallow. Then he could see his wife sitting alone, amiserable woman, despised envied, isolated, shut off from her own classby her marriage with the Deemster, and from his class by the Deemster'smarriage with her. Again, he could see himself too powerful to offend, too dangerous to ignore, going out on his duties without cheer, andreturning to his wife without company. Finally, he remembered his fatherand his mother, and he could not help but picture himself sitting athome with Kate five years after their marriage, when the first happinessof each other's society had faded, had staled, had turned to thewretchedness of starvation in its state of siege. Or perhaps going outfor walks with her, just themselves, always themselves only, they twotogether, this evening, last evening, and to-morrow evening; throughthe streets crowded by visitors, down the harbour where the fishermencongregate, across the bridge and over the head between sea and sky;people bowing to them respectfully, rigidly, freezingly; people nudgingand whispering and looking their way. Oh, God, what end could come ofsuch an abject life but that, beginning by being unhappy, they shoulddescend to being bad as well?

"What a fuss you are making of things, " said the voice again, but moreloudly. "This hubbub only means that you can't have your cake and eatit. Very well, take Kate, and let the Deemstership go to perdition. "

There was not much comfort in that counsel, for it made no reckoningwith the certainty that, if marriage with Kate would prevent him frombeing Deemster, it would prevent him from being anything in the Isleof Man. As it had happened with his father, so it would happen withhim--there would be no standing ground in the island for the man who haddeliberately put himself outside the pale. 

"Don't worry me with silly efforts to draw a line so straight. If youcan't have Kate and the Deemstership together, and if you can't haveKate without the Deemstership, there is only one thing left--theDeemstership without Kate. You must take the office and forego the girl. It is your duty, your necessity. "

This was how Philip put it to himself at length, and the daylight hadgone by that time, and he was walking in the dark. But the voice whichhad been pleading on his side now protested on hers. 

"Don't prate of duty and necessity. You mean self-love andself-interest. Man, be honest. Because this woman is an obstacle in yourcareer, you would sacrifice her. It is boundless, pitiless selfishness. Suppose you abandon her, dare you think of her without shame! She lovesyou, she trusts you, and she has given you proof of her love and trust. Hold your tongue. Don't dare to whisper that nobody knows it but youand heir--that you will be silent, that she will have no temptation tospeak. She loves you. She has given you all. God bless her!"

Affectionate pity swept down the selfish man in him. As the lights ofthe town appeared on his path, he was saying to himself boldly, "Sinceeither way there is trouble, I'll do as I said last night--I'll leaveHeaven to decide whether I'm to be a great man or a little man, anddecide for myself whether I'm to be a true man or a happy man. I'll takemy heart in my hand and go right forward. "

In this temper he returned to his chambers. The rooms fronted to AtholStreet, but backed on to the churchyard of St. George's. They werequiet, and not overlooked. His lamp was lit. The servant was laying thecloth. 

"Lay covers for two, Jemmy, " said Philip. Then he began to humsomething. 

Presently, in feeling for his keys, his fingers touched an unfamiliarsubstance in his pocket. He remembered what it was. It was the crackedmedallion of his father. He could not bear to look at it. Unlocking achest, he buried it at the bottom under a pile of winter clothing. 

This recalled a possession yet more painful, and going to a desk, hedrew out the packet of his father's letters and proceeded to hide themaway with the medallion. As he did so his hand trembled, his limbsshook, he felt giddy, and he thought the voice that had tormented himwith conflicting taunts was ringing in his ears again. "Bury him deep!Bury your father out of all sight and all remembrance. Bury his loveof you, his hopes of you, his expectations and dreams of you. Bury andforget him for ever. "

Philip hesitated a moment, and then banged down the lid of the chest, and relocked it as his servant returned to the room. The man was asolemn, dignified, and reticent person, who had been groom to the lateBishop. His gravity he had acquired from his horses, his dignity fromhis master; but his reticence he had created for himself, being a thingbeyond nature in creature or man. His proper name was Cottier; he hadalways been known as Jemy-Lord. 

"Company not arrived, sir, " he said. "Wait or serve?"

"What is the time?" said Philip. 

"Struck eight; but clock two minutes soon. "

"Serve the supper at once, " said Philip. 

When the dishes had been brought in and the man dismissed, Philip, taking his place at the table, drew from his button-hole a flower whichhe had picked out of his water-bowl at lunch, and, first putting it tohis lips, he tossed it on to the empty place before the chair which hadbeen drawn up opposite. Then he sat down to eat. 

He ate little; and, do what he would, he could not keep his mindfrom wandering. He thought of his aunt, and how hurt she had been theprevious night; of his uncle, and how he had snubbed and then slaveredover him; of the Governor, and how strange the interest he had shown inhim; and finally, he thought of Pete, and how lately he was dead, andhow soon forgotten. 

In the midst of these memories, all sad and some bitter, suddenly heremembered again that he was supping with Kate. Then he struggled tobe bright and even a little gay. He knew that she would be taking hersupper at Sulby at that moment, thinking of him and making believe thathe was with her. So he tried to think that she was with him, sitting inthe chair opposite, looking across the table between the white clothand the blue lamp-shade, out of her beaming eyes, with her rings of darkhair dancing on her forehead, and her ripe mouth twitching merrily. Thenthe air of the room seemed to be filled with a sweet presence. Hecould have fancied there was a perfume of lace and dainty things. "Sweetheart!" He laughed--he hardly knew if it was himself that hadspoken. It was dear, delicious fooling. 

But his eyes fell on the chest wherein he had buried the letters and themedallion, and his mind wandered again. He thought of his father, of hisgrandfather, of his lost inheritance, and how nearly he had reclaimedthe better part of it, and then once more of Pete, crying aloud at lastin the coil of his trouble, "Oh, if Pete had only lived!"

His voice startled and his words horrified him. To wipe out both inthe first moment of recovered consciousness, he filled his glass tothe brim, and lifted it up, rising at the same time, looking acrossthe table, and saying in a soft whisper, "Your health, darling, yourhealth!"

The bell rang from the street door, and he stood listening with thewine-glass in his hand. When he knew anything more, a voice at hiselbow was saying out of a palpitating gloom, "The gentleman can't come, seemingly; he has sent a telegram. "

It was Jem-y-Lord holding a telegram in his hand. 

Philip tore open the envelope and read--

"Coming home by Ramsey boat to-morrow well and hearty tell Kirry Peat. "

IV. 

Somewhere in the dead and vacant dawn Philip went to bed, worn out by anight-long perambulation of the dark streets. He slept a heavy sleepof four deep hours, with oppressive dreams of common things swelling toenormous size about him. 

When Jem-y-Lord took the tea to his master's bedroom in the morning, the tray was almost banged out of his hands by the clashing back of thedoor, after he had pushed it open with his knee. The window was halfup, and a cold sea-breeze was blowing into the room; yet the grate andhearth showed that a fire had been kindled in the night, and his masterwas still sleeping. 

Jem set down his tray, lifted a decanter that stood on the table, heldit to the light, snorted like an old horse, nodded to himself knowingly, and closed the window. 

Philip awoke with the noise, and looked around in a bewildered way. Hewas feeling vaguely that something had happened, when the man said--

"The horse will be round soon, sir. "

"What horse?" said Philip. 

"The horse you ride, sir, " said Jem, and, with an indulgent smile, headded, "the one I ordered from Shimmen's when I posted the letter. "

"What letter?"

"The letter you gave me to post before I went to bed. "

All was jumbled and confused in Philip's mind. He was obliged to make aneffort to remember. Just then the newsboys went shouting down the streetbeyond the churchyard: "Special edition--Death of the Deemster. "

Then everything came back. He had written to Kate, asking her to meethim at Port Mooar at two o'clock that day. It was then, and in thatlonesome place, that he had decided to break the news to her. He musttell all; he had determined upon his course. 

Without appetite he ate his breakfast. As he did so he heard voicesfrom a stable-yard in the street. He lifted his head and looked outmechanically. A four-wheeled dogcart was coming down the archway behinda mettlesome young horse with silver-mounted harness. The man drivingit was a gorgeous person in a light Melton overcoat. One of his spattedfeet was on the break, and he had a big cigar between his teeth. It wasRoss Christian. 

The last time Philip had seen the man he had fought him for the honourof Kate. It was like whips and scorpions to think of that now. Ashamed, abased, degraded in his own eyes, he turned away his head. 

V. 

In the middle of the night following the Melliah, Kate, turning in bed, kissed her hand because it had held the hand of Philip. When she awokein the morning she felt a great happiness. Opening her eyes and halfraising herself in bed, she looked around. There were the pink curtainshanging like a tent above her, there were the scraas of the thatchedroof, with the cracking whitewash snipping down on the counterpane, there were the press and the wash-hand table, the sheep-skin on thefloor, and the sun coming through the orchard window. But everything wastransfigured, everything beautiful, everything mysterious. She was likeone who had gone to sleep on the sea, with only the unattainable horizonround about, and awakened in harbour in a strange land that was warm andlovely and full of sunshine. She closed her eyes again, so that nothingmight disturb the contemplation of the mystery. She folded her roundarms as a pillow behind her head, her limbs dropped back of their ownweight, and her mouth broke into a happy smile. Oh, miracle of miracles!The whole world was changed. 

She heard the clatter of pattens in the room below; it was Nancychurning in the dairy. She heard shouts from beyond the orchard--it washer father stacking in the haggard; she heard her mother talking in thebar, and the mill-wheel swishing in the pond. It seemed almost wonderfulthat the machinery of ordinary life could be working away the same asever. 

Could she be the same herself? She reached over for a hand-glass to lookat her face. As she took it off the table, it slipped from the tips ofher fingers, and, falling face downwards, it broke. She had a momentarypang at that accident as at a bad omen, but just then Nancy came up witha letter. It was the letter which Philip had written at Ballure. Whenshe was alone again she read it. Then she put it in her bosom. It seemedto be haunted by the odour of the gorse, the odour of the glen, of thetholthan, of Philip, and of all delights. 

A faint ghost of shame came to frighten her. Had she sinned against hersex? Was it disgraceful that she had wooed and not waited to be won?With all his love of her, would Philip be ashamed of her also? Her facegrew hot. She knew that she was blushing, and she covered up her headas if her lover were there to see. Such fears did not last long. Her joywas too bold to be afraid of tangible things. So overwhelming was herhappiness that her only fear was lest she might awake at some moment andfind that she was asleep now, and everything had been a dream. 

That was Friday, and towards noon word came from Kirk Michael that theDeemster had died on the afternoon of the day before. 

"Then they ought to put Philip Christian in his place, " she saidpromptly; "I'm sure no one deserves it better. "

They had been talking in low tones in the kitchen with their backs toher, but faced about with looks of astonishment. 

"Sakes alive, Kirry, " cried Nancy, "is it yourself it was? What were yousaying a week ago?"

"Well, do you expect a girl to be saying the one thing always?" laughedKate. 

"Aw, no, " said Cæsar. "A woman's opinions isn't usually as stiff as thetail of a fighting Tom cat. They're more coming and going, of a rule. "

Next day, Saturday, she received Philip's second letter, the letterwritten at Douglas after the supper and the arrival of Pete'stelegram. It was written crosswise, in a hasty hand, on a half-sheetof note-paper, and was like a postscript, without signature orsuperscription:--. 

"Most urgent. Must see you immediately. Meet me at Port Mooar at twoo'clock to-morrow. We can talk there without interruption. Be brave, mydear. There are serious matters to discuss and arrange. "

The message was curt, and even cold, but it brought her no disquiet. Marriage! That was the only vision it conjured up. The death of theDeemster had hastened things--that was the meaning of the urgency. PortMooar was near to Ballure--that was why she had to go so far. They wouldhave to face gossip, perhaps backbiting, perhaps even abuse--that wasthe reason she had to be brave. Why and how the Deemster's death shouldaffect her marriage with Philip was a matter she did not puzzle out. She had vague memories of girls marrying in delightful haste and sailingaway with their husbands, and being gone before you had time to thinkthey were to go. But this new fact of her life was only a part ofthe great mystery, and was not to be explained by everyday ideas andoccurrences. 

Kate ran up to dress, and came down like a bud bursting into flower. Shehad dressed more carefully than ever. Philip had great expectations; hemust not be disappointed. Making the excuse of shopping, she was settingoff towards Ramsey, when her father shouted from the stable that he wasfor driving the same way. The mare was harnessed to the gig, and theygot up together. 

Cæsar had made inquiries and calculations. He had learned that the_Johannesburg_, from Cape Town, arrived in Liverpool the day before; andhe concluded that Pete's effects would come by the _Peveril_, the weeklysteamer to Ramsay, on Saturday morning, The _Peveril_ left Liverpool ateight; she would be due at three. Cæsar meant to be on the quay at two. 

"It's my duty as a parent, Kate, " said he. "What more natural butthere's something for yourself? It's my duty as a pastor, too, forthere's Manx ones going that's in danger of the devil of covetousness, and it's doing the Lord's work to put them out of the reach oftemptation. You may exhort with them till you're black in the face, butit's throwing good money in the mud. Just _chuck!_ No ring at all; noway responsive!"

Kate was silent, and Cæsar added familiarly, "Of course, it's my righttoo, for when a man's birth is _that_ way, there's no heirship by blood, and possession is nine points of the law. That's so, Kate. You needn'tbe looking so hard. It's truth enough, girl. I've had advocate'sopinion. "

Kate had looked, but had not listened. The matter of her father's talkwas too trivial, it's interest was too remote. As they drove, she keptglancing seaward and asking what time it was. 

"Aw, time enough yet, woman, " said Cæsar. "No need to be unaisy at all. She'll not be round the Head for an hour anyway. Will you come alongwith me to the quay, then? No? Well, better not, maybe. "

At the door of a draper's she got down from the gig, and told her fathernot to wait for her on going home. Cæsar moistened his forefinger andheld it in the air a moment. 

"Then don't be late, " said he, "there's weather coming. "

A few minutes afterwards she was walking rapidly up Ballure. PassingBallure House, she found herself treading softly. It was like holyground. She did not look across; she gave no sign; there was only atremor of the eyelids, a quiver of the mouth, and a tightening of thehand that held her purse, as, with head down, she passed on. Going bythe water-trough, she saw the bullet-head of Black Tom looking seawardover the hedge through a telescope encased in torn and faded cloth. Though the man was repugnant to her, she saluted him cheerfully. 

"Fine day, Mr. Quilliam. "

"It _was_ doing a fine day, ma'am, but the bees is coming home, " saidTom. 

He glowered at her as at a scout of the enemy, but she did not mindthat. She was very happy. The sun was still shining. On reaching thetop of the brow, she began to skip and run where the road descends byFolieu. Thus, with a light heart and a light step, thinking ill of noone, in love with all the world, she went hurrying to her doom. 

The sea below lay very calm and blue. Nothing was to be seen on thewater but a line of black smoke from the funnel of a steamship which hadnot yet risen above the horizon. 

VI. 

Philip put up his horse at the Hibernian, a mile farther on thehigh-road, and the tongue of the landlady, Mistress Looney went likea mill-race while he ate his dinner. She had known three generations ofhis family, and was full of stories of his grandfather, of his father, and of himself in his childhood. Full of facetiæ, too, about his looks, which were "rasonable promising, " and about the girls of Douglas, whowere "neither good nor middling. " She was also full of sage counsel, advising marriage with a warm girl having "nice things at her--nicelands and pigs and things"--as a ready way to square the "bobbery" ofthirty years ago at Ballawhaine. 

Philip left his plate half full, and rose from the table to go down toPort Mooar. 

"But, boy veen, you've destroyed nothing, ", cried the landlady. And thencoaxingly, as if he had been a child, "You'll be ateing bits for me, now, come, come! No more at all? Aw, it's failing you are, Mr. Philip!Going for a walk is it? Take your topcoat then, for the clover isclosing. "

He took the road that Pete had haunted as a boy on returning home fromschool in the days when Kate lived at Cornaa, going through the networkof paths by the mill, and over the brow by Ballajora. The new miller waspulling down the thatched cottage in which Kate had been born to putup a slate house. They had built a porch for shelter to the chapel, andcarved the figure of a slaughtered lamb on a stone in the gable. Anotherlamb--a living lamb--was being killed by the butcher of Ballajora asPhilip went by the shambles. The helpless creature, with its invertedhead swung downwards from the block, looked at him with its piteouseyes, and gave forth that distressful cry which is the last wild appealof the stricken animal when it sees death near, and has ceased to fightfor life. 

The air was quiet, and the sea was calm, but across the Channel aleaden sky seemed to hover over the English mountains, though they werestill light and apparently in sunshine. As Philip reached Port Mooar, acart was coming out of it with a load of sea-wrack for the land, and alobster-fisher on the beach was shipping his gear for sea. 

"Quiet day, " said Philip in passing. 

"I'm not much liking the look of it, though, " said the fisherman. "Mortal thick surf coming up for the wind that's in. " But he slipped hisboat, pulled up sail, and rode away. 

Philip looked at his watch and then walked down the beach. Coming to acave, he entered it. The sea-wrack was banked up in the darkness behind, and between two stones at the mouth there were the remains of a recentfire. Suddenly he remembered the cave. It was the cave of the Carasdhoomen. He éould hear the voice of Pete in its rumbling depths; he couldhear and see himself. "Shall we save the women, Pete?--we always do. ""Aw, yes, the women--and the boys. " The tenderness of that memory wastoo much for Philip. He came out of the cave, and walked back over theshore. 

"She will come by the church, " he thought, and he climbed the cliffsto look out. A line of fir-trees grew there, a comb of little misshapenghoul-like things, stunted by the winds that swept over the seas inwinter. In a fork of one of these a bird's nest of last year was stillhanging; but it was now empty, songless, joyless, and dead. 

"She's here. " he told himself, and he drew his breath noisily. A whitefigure had turned the road by the sundial, and was coming on with thestep of a greyhound. 

The black clouds above the English mountains were heeling down on theland. There was a storm on the other coast, though the sky over theisland was still fine. The steamship had risen above the horizon, andwas heading towards the bay. 

VII. 

She met him on the hill slope with a cry of joy, and kissed him. It cameinto his mind to draw away, but he could not, and he kissed her back. Then she linked her arm in his, and they turned down the beach. 

"I'm glad you've come, " he began. 

"Did you ever dream I wouldn't?" she said. Her face was a smile, hervoice was an eager whisper. 

"I have something to say to you, Kate--it is something serious. "

"Is it so?" she said. "So very serious?"

She was laughing and blushing together. Didn't she know what he wasgoing to say? Didn't she guess what this serious something must be? Toprolong the delicious suspense before hearing it, she pretended to beabsorbed in the things about her. She looked aside at the sea, and upat the banks, and down at the little dubbs of salt water as she skippedacross them, crying out at sight of the sea-holly, the anemone, andthe sea-mouse shining like fire, but still holding to Philip's arm andbounding and throbbing on it. 

"You must be quiet, dear, and listen, " he said. 

"Oh, I'll be good--so very good, " she said. "But look! only look at thewhite horses out yonder--far out beyond the steamer. Davy's putting onthe coppers for the parson, eh?"

She caught the grave expression of Philip's face, and drew herself upwith pretended severity, saying, "Be quiet, Katey. Behave yourself. Philip wants to talk to you--seriously--very seriously. "

Then, leaning forward with head aside to look up into his face, shesaid, "Well, sir, why don't you begin? Perhaps you think I'll cry out. Iwon't--I promise you I won't. "

But she grew uneasy at the settled gravity of his face, and the joygradually died off her own. When Philip spoke, his voice was like acracked echo of itself. 

"You remember what you said, Kate, when I brought you that last letterfrom Kimberley--that if next morning you found it was a mistake------"

"_Is_ it a mistake?" she asked. 

"Becalm, Kate. "

"I am quite calm, dear. I remember I said it would kill me. But I wasvery foolish. I should not say so now. Is Pete alive?"

She spoke without a tremor, and he answered in a husky whisper, "Yes. "

Then, in a breaking voice, he said, "We were very foolish Kate--jumpingso hastily to a conclusion was very foolish-it was worse than foolish, it was wicked. I half doubted the letter at the time, but, God forgiveme, I _wanted_ to believe it, and so----"

"I am glad Pete is living, " she said quietly. 

He was aghast at her calmness. The irregular lines in his face showedthe disordered state of his soul, but she walked by his side withoutthe quiver of an eyelid, or a tinge of colour more than usual. Had sheunderstood?

"Look!" he said, and he drew Pete's telegram from his pocket and gave itto her. 

She opened it easily, and he watched her while she read it, prepared fora cry, and ready to put his arms about her if she fell. But there wasnot a movement save the motion of her fingers, not a sound exceptthe crinking of the thin paper. He turned his head away. The sun wasshining; there was a steely light on the firs, and here and there awhite breaker was rising like a sea-bird out of the blue surface of thesea. 

"Well?" she said. 

"Kate, you astonish me, " said Philip. "This comes on us like athundercloud, and you seem not to realise it. "

She put her arms about his neck, and the paper rustled on his shoulder. "My darling, " she said, "do you love me still?"

"You know I love you, but----"

"Then there is no thundercloud in heaven for me now, " she said. 

The simple grandeur of the girl's love shamed him. Its trust, itsconfidence, its indifference to all the evil chance of life if only heloved her still, this had been beyond him. But he disengaged her armsand said, "We must not live in a fool's paradise, Kate. You promisedyourself to Pete----"

"But, Philip, " she said, "that was when I was a child. It was only ahalf promise then, and I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't knowwhat love was. All that came later, dearest, much later--you know when. "

"To Pete it is the same thing, Kate, " said Philip. "He is coming home toclaim you----"

She stopped him by getting in front of him and saying, with face down, smoothing his sleeve as she spoke, "You are a man, Philip, and youcannot understand. How can you, and how can I tell you? When a girl isnot a woman, but only a child, she is a different person. She can't loveanybody then--not really--not to say love, and the promises she makescan't count. It was not I that promised myself to Pete--if I didpromise. It was my little sister--the little sister that was me long, long ago, but is now gone--put to sleep inside me somewhere. Is that_very_ foolish, darling?"

"But think of Pete, " said Philip; "think of him going away for love ofyou, living five years abroad, toiling, slaving, saving, encounteringprivations, perhaps perils, and all for you, all for love of you. Thenthink of him coming home with his heart full of you, buoyed up with thehope of you, thirsting, starving, and yearning for you, and finding youlost to him, dead to him, worse than dead--it will kill him, Kate. "

She was unmoved by the picture. "I am very sorry, but I do not lovehim, " she said quietly. "I am sorry--what else can a girl be when shedoes not love a young man?"

"He left me to take care of you, too, and you see--you see by thetelegram--he is coming home with faith in my loyalty. How can I tell himthat I have broken my trust? How can I meet him and explain----"

"I know, Philip. Say we heard he was dead and----"

"No, it would be too wretched. It's only three weeks since the lettercame--and it would not be true, Kate--it would revolt me. "

She lifted her eyes in a fond look of shame-faced love, and said again, "_I_ know, then--lay the blame on me, Philip. What do I care? Say itwas all my fault, and I made you love me. _I_ shan't care for anybody'stalk. And it's true, isn't it? Partly true, eh?"

"If I talked to Pete of temptation I should despise myself, " saidPhilip; and then she threw her head up and said proudly--

"Very well, tell the truth itself--the simple truth, Philip. Say wetried to be faithful and loyal, and all that, and could not, because weloved each other, and there was no help for it. "

"If I tell him the truth, I shall die of shame, " said Philip. "Oh, thereis no way out of this miserable tangle. Whether I cover myself withdeceit, or strip myself of evasion, I shall stain my soul for ever. Ishall become a base man, and year by year sink lower and lower in themire of lies and deceit. "

She listened with her eyes fixed on his quivering face, and her eyelidsfluttered, and her fond looks began to be afraid. 

"Say that we married, " he continued; "we should never forget that youhad broken your promise and I my trust. That memory would haunt us aslong as we lived. We should never know one moment's happiness or onemoment's peace. Pete would be a broken-hearted man, perhaps a wreck, perhaps--who knows?--dead of his own hand. He would be the ghost betweenus always. "

"And do you think I should be afraid of that?" she said. "Indeed, no. Ifyou were with me, Philip, and loved me still, I should not care for allthe spirits of heaven itself. "

Her face was as pale as death now, but her great eyes were shining. 

"Our love would fail us, Kate, " said Philip. "The sense of our guiltwould kill it. How could we go on loving each other with a thing likethat about us all day and all night--sitting at our table--listening toour talk--standing by our bed? Oh, merciful God!"

The terror of his vision mastered him, and he covered his face with bothhands. She drew them down again and held them in a tight lock in herfingers. But the stony light of his eyes was more fearful to lookupon, and she said in a troubled voice, "Do you mean, Philip, thatwe--could--not marry--now?"

He did not answer, and she repeated the question, looking up into hisface like a criminal waiting for his sentence--her head bent forward andher mouth open. 

"We cannot, " he muttered. "God help us, we dare not, " he said; and thenhe tried to show her again how their marriage was impossible, now thatPete had come, without treason and shame and misery. But his wordsfrayed off into silence. He caught the look of her eyes, and it was likethe piteous look of the lamb under the hands of the butcher. 

"Is that what you came to tell me?" she asked. 

His reply died in his throat. She divined rather than heard it. 

Her doom had fallen on her, but she did not cry out. She did not yetrealise in all its fulness what had happened. It was like a bullet-woundin battle; first a sense of air, almost of relief, then a pang, and thenoverwhelming agony. 

They had been walking again, but she slid in front of him as she haddone before. Her arms crept up his breast with a caressing touch, andlinked themselves behind his neck. 

"This is only a jest, dearest, " she said, "some test of my love, perhaps. You wished to make sure of me--quite, quite sure--now that Peteis alive and coming home. But, you see, I want only one to love me, only one, dear. Come, now, confess. Don't be afraid to say you have beenplaying with me. I shan't be angry with you. Come, speak to me. "

He could not utter a word, and she let her arms fall from his neck;and they walked on side by side, both staring out to sea. The Englishmountains were black by this time. A tempest was raging on the othershore, though the air on this side was as soft as human breath. . 

Presently she stopped, her feet scraped the gravel, and she exclaimedin a husky tone, "I know what it is. It is not Pete. I am in your way. That's it. You can't get on with me about you. I am not fit for you. Thedistance between us is too great. "

He struggled to deny it, but he could not. It was part of the truth. Heknew too well how near to being the whole truth it was. Pete had comeat the last moment to cover up his conscience, but Kate was stripping itnaked and showing him the skeleton. 

"It's all very well for you, " she cried, "but where am I? Why didn'tyou leave me alone? Why did you encourage me? Yes, indeed, encourageme! Didn't you say, though a woman couldn't raise herself in life, a mancould lift her up if he only loved her? And didn't you tell me there wasneither below nor above where there was true liking, and that if a womanbelonged to some one, and some one belonged to her, it was God's signthat they were equal, and everything else was nothing--pride was nothingand position was nothing and the whole world was nothing? But now I knowdifferent. The world is between us. It always has been between us, andyou can never belong to me. You will go on and rise up, and I will beleft behind. "

Then she broke into frightful laughter. "Oh, I have been a fool! How Idreamt of being happy! I knew I was only a poor ignorant thing, but Isaw myself lifted up by the one I loved. And now I am to be left alone. Oh, it is awful! Why did you deceive me? Yes, deceive me! Isn't thatdeceiving me? You deceived me when you led me to think that you lovedme more than all the world. You don't I It is the world itself you love, and Pete is only your excuse. "

As she spoke she clutched at his arms, his hands, his breast, and at herown throat, as if something was strangling her. He did not answer herreproaches, for he knew well what they were. They were the bitter cryof her great love, her great misery, and her great jealousy of theworld--the merciless and mysterious power that was luring him away. After awhile his silence touched her, and she came up to him, fullof remorse, and said, "No, no, Philip, you have nothing to reproachyourself with. You did not deceive me at all. I deceived myself. It wasmy own fault. I led you on--I know that. And yet I've been saying thesecruel things. You'll forgive me, though, will you not? A girl can't helpit sometimes, Philip. Are you crying? You are not crying, are you? Kissme, Philip, and forgive me. You can do that, can't you?"

She asked like a child, with her face up and her lips apart. He wasabout to yield, and was reaching forward to touch her forehead, whensuddenly the child became the woman, and she leapt upon his breast, and held him fervently, her blood surging, her bosom exulting, her eyesflaming, and her passionate voice crying, "Philip, you are mine. No, Iwill not release you. I don't care about your plans--you shall givethem up. I don't care about your trust--you shall break it. I don't careabout Pete coming--let him come. The world can do without you--I cannot. You are mine, Philip, and I am yours, and nobody else's, and never willbe. You _must_ come back to me, sooner or later, if you go away. I knowit, I feel it, it's in my heart. But I'll never let you go. I can't, I can't. Haven't I a right to you? Yes, I have a right. Don't youremember?. . . Can you ever forget?. . . My _husband!_"

The last word came muffled from his breast, where she had buried herhead in the convulsions of her trembling at the moment when her modestywent down in the fierce battle with a higher pain. But the plea whichseemed to give her the right to cling the closer made the man to drawapart. It was the old deep tragedy of human love--the ancient inequalityin the bond of man and woman. What she had thought her conquest hadbeen her vanquishment. He could not help, it--her last word had killedeverything. 

"Oh, God, " he groaned, "that is the worst of all. "

"Philip, " she cried, "what do you mean?"

"I mean that neither can I marry you, nor can you marry Pete. You wouldcarry to him your love of me, and bit by bit he would find it out, andit would kill him. It would kill you, too, for you have called me yourhusband, and you could never, never, never forget it. "

"I don't want to marry Pete, " she said. "If I'm not to marry you, Idon't want to marry any one. But do you mean that I must not marry atall--that I never can now that----"

The word failed her, and his answer came thick and indistinct--"Yes. "

"And you, Philip? What about yourself?"

"As there is no other man for you, Kate, " he said, "so there is no otherwoman for me. We must go through the world alone. "

"Is this my punishment?"

"It is the punishment of both, Kate, the punishment of both alike. "

Kate stopped her breathing. Her clenched hands slackened away fromhis neck, and she stepped back from him, shuddering with remorse, anddespair, and shame. She saw herself now for the first time a fallenwoman. Never before had her sin touched her soul. It was at that momentshe fell. 

They had come up to the cave by this time, and she sat on the stone atthe mouth of it in a great outburst of weeping. It tore his heart tohear her. The voice of her weeping was like the distressful cry of theslaughtered lamb. He had to wrestle with himself not to take her in hisarms and comfort her. The fit of tears spent itself at length, and aftera time she drew a great breath and was quiet. Then she lifted her face, and the last gleam of the autumn sun smote her colourless lips andswollen eyes. When she spoke again, it was like one speaking in hersleep, or under the spell of somebody who had magnetised her. 

"It is wrong of me to think so much of myself, as if that wereeverything. I ought to feel sorry for you too. You must be driven to it, or you could never be so cruel. "

With his face to the sea, he mumbled something about Pete, and shecaught up the name and said, "Yes, and Pete too. As you think it wouldbe wrong to Pete, I will not hold to you. Oh, it will be wrong to meas well! But I will not give you the pain of turning a deaf ear to mytroubles any more. "

She was struggling with a pitiless hope that perhaps she might regainhim after all. "If I give him up, " she thought, "he will love me for it;"and then, with a sad ring in her voice, she said, "You will go on andbe a great man now, for you'll not have me to hold you back. "

"For pity's sake, say no more of that, " he said, but she paid no heed. 

"I used to think it a wonderful thing to be loved by a great man. Idon't now. It is terrible. If I could only have you to myself! If youcould only be nothing to anybody else! You would be everything to me, and what should I care then?"

Between torture and love he had almost broken down at that, but hegripped his breast and turned half aside, for his eyes were streaming. She came up to him and touched with the tips of her fingers the handthat hung by his side, and said in a voice like a child's, "Fancy! thisis the end of everything, and when we part now we are to meet no more. Not the same way at all--not as we have met. You will be like anybodyelse to me, and I will be like anybody else to you. Miss Cregeen, thatwill be my name and you will be Mr. Christian. When you see me you'llsay to yourself, 'Yes, poor thing; long ago, when she was a girl, I madeher love me. Nobody ever loved me like that. ' And fancy! when you passme in the street, you will not even look my way. You won't, will you?No--no, it will be better not. Goodbye!"

Her simple tenderness almost stifled him. He had to hold his under lipwith his teeth to keep back the cry that was bursting from his tongue. At last he could bear it no longer, and he broke out, "Would to God wehad never loved each other! Would to God we had never met!"

But she answered with the same childish sweetness, "Don't say that, Philip. We have had some happy hours together. I would rather be partedfrom you like this, though it is so hard, so cruel, than never to havemet you at all. Isn't it something for me to think of, that the truest, cleverest, noblest man in all the world has loved me?. . . Good-bye!. . . Good-bye!"

His heart bled, his heart cried, but he uttered no sound. They were sideby side. She let his hand slip from the tips of her fingers, and drewsilently away. At three paces apart she paused, but he gave no sign. Sheclimbed the low brow of the hill slowly, very slowly, trying to commandher throat, which was fluttering, and looking back through her tears asshe went. Philip heard the shingle slip under her feet while she toiledup the cliff, and when she reached the top the soft thud on the turfseemed to beat on his heart. She stood there a moment against the sky, waiting for a sound from the shore, a cry, a word, the lifting of ahand, a sob, a sigh, her own name, "Kate, " and she was ready to fly backeven then, wounded and humiliated as she was, a poor torn bird that hadbeen struggling in the lime. But no; he was silent and motionless, andshe disappeared behind the hill. He saw her go, and all the light ofheaven went with her. 

VIII. 

It was so far back home, so much farther than it had been to come. Thecourse is short and easy going out to sea when the tide is with you, andthe water is smooth, and the sun is shining, but long and hard comingback to harbour, when the waves have risen, and the sky is low, and thewind is on your bow. 

So far, so very far. She thought everybody looked at her, and knew herfor what she was--a broken, forsaken, fallen woman. And she was so tiredtoo; she wondered if her limbs would carry her. 

When Philip was left alone, the sky seemed to be lying on his shoulders. The English mountains were grey and ghostly now, and the storm, whichhad spent itself on the other coast, seemed to hang over the island. There were breakers where the long dead sea had been, and the petreloutside was scudding close to the white curves, and uttering its dismalnote. 

So heavy and confused had the storm and wreck of the last hour left him, that he did not at first observe by the backward tail of smoke that thesteamer had passed round the Head, and that the cart he had met at themouth of the port had come back empty to the cave for another load ofsea-wrack. The lobster-fisher, too, had beached his boat near by, andwas shouting through the hollow air, wherein every noise seemed toecho with a sepulchral quake, "The block was going whistling at themast-head. We'll have a squall I was thinking, so in I came. "

That night Philip dreamt a dream. He was sitting on a dais with a woodencanopy above him, the English coat of arms behind, and a great book infront; his hands shook as he turned the leaves; he felt his leg hangheavily; people bowed low to him, and dropped their voices in hispresence; he was the Deemster, and he was old. A young woman stood inthe dock, dripping water from her hair, and she had covered her facewith her hands. In the witness-box a young man was standing, and hishead was down. The man had delivered the woman to dishonour; she hadattempted her life in her shame and her despair. And looking on the man, the Deemster thought he spoke in a stern voice, saying, "Witness, I amcompelled to punish her, but oh to heaven that I could punish you in herplace! What have you to say for yourself?" "I have nothing to say formyself, " the young man answered, and he lifted his head and the oldDeemster saw his face. Then Philip awoke with a smothered scream, forthe young man's face had been his own. 

IX. 

When Cæsar got to the quay, he looked about with watchful eyes, as iffearing he might find somebody there before him. The coast was clear, and he gave a grunt of relief. After fixing the horse-cloth, andsettling the mare in a nose-bag, he began to walk up and down the forepart of the harbour, still keeping an eager look-out. As time went onhe grew comfortable, exchanged salutations with the harbour-master, andeven whistled a little to while away the time. 

"Quiet day, Mr. Quayle. "

"Quiet enough yet, Mr. Cregeen; but what's it saying? 'The greater thecalm the nearer the south wind. '"

By the time that Cæsar, from the end of the pier, saw the smoke of thesteamer coming round Kirk Maughold Head, he was in a spiritual, almosta mournful, mood. He was feeling how melancholy was the task of going tomeet the few possessions, the clothes and such like, which were all thatremained of a dear friend departed. It was the duty of somebody, though, and Cæsar drew a long breath of resignation. 

The steamer came up to the quay, and there was much bustle andconfusion. Cæsar waited, with one hand on the mare's neck, until theworst of it was over. Then he went aboard, and said in a solemn voiceto the sailor at the foot of the gangway, "Anything here the property ofMr. Peter Quilliam?"

"That's his luggage, " said the sailor, pointing to a leather trunk ofmoderate size among similar trunks at the mouth of the hatchway. 

"H'm!" said Cæsar, eyeing it sideways, and thinking how small it was. Then, reflecting that perhaps valuable papers were all it was thoughtworth while to send home, he added cheerfully, "I'll take it with me. "

Somewhat to Cæsar's surprise, the sailor raised no difficulties, but just as he was regarding the trunk with that faith which is thesubstance of things hoped for, a big, ugly hand laid hold of it, andbegan to rock it about like a pebble. 

It was Black Tom, smoking with perspiration. 

"Aisy, man, aisy, " said Cæsar, with lofty dignity. "I've the gig on thequay. "

"And I've a stiff cart on the market, " said Black Tom. 

"I'm wanting no assistance, " said Cæsar; "you needn't trouble yourself. "

"Don't mention it, Cæsar, " said Black Tom, and he turned the trunk onend and bent his back to lift it. 

But Cæsar put a heavy hand on top and said, "Gough bless me, man, but Iam sorry for thee. Mammon hath entered into thy heart, Tom. "

"He have just popped out of thine, then, " said Black Tom, swirling thetrunk on one of its corners. 

But Cæsar held on, and said, "I don't know in the world why you shouldlet the devil of covetousness get the better of you. "

"I don't mane to--let go the chiss, " said Black Tom, and in anotherminute he had it on his shoulder. 

"Now, I believe in my heart, " said Cæsar, "I would be forgiven a littleviolence, " and he took the trunk by both hands to bring it down again. 

"Let go the chiss, or I'll strek thee into the harbour, " bawled BlackTom under his load. 

"The Philistines be upon thee, Samson, " cried Cæsar, and with that therewas a struggle. 

In the midst of the uproar, while the men were shouting into eachother's faces, and the trunk was rocking between them shoulder high, a sunburnt man, with a thick beard and a formidable voice, a stalwartfellow in a pilot jacket and wide-brimmed hat, came hurrying up thecabin-stairs, and a dog came running behind him. A moment later he hadparted the two men, and the trunk was lying at his feet. 

Black Tom fell back a step, lifted his straw hat, scratched his baldcrown, and muttered in a voice of awe. "Holy sailor!"

Cæsar's face was livid, and his eyes went up toward his forehead. "Lordhave mercy upon me, " he mumbled; "have mercy on my soul, O Lord. "

"Don't be afraid, " said the stranger. "I'm a living man and not aghost. "

"The man himself, " said Black Tom. 

"Peter Quilliam alive and hearty, " said Cæsar. 

"I am, " said Pete. "And now, what's the bobbery between the pair of you?Shuperintending the beaching of my trunk, eh?"

But having recovered from his terror at the idea that Pete was a spirit, Cæsar began to take him to task for being a living man. "How's this?"said he. "Answer me, young man, I've praiched your funeral. "

"You'll have to do it again, Mr. Cregeen, for I'm not gone yet, " saidPete. 

"No, but worth ten dead men still, " said Black Tom. "And my goodness, boy, the smart and stout you're looking, anyway. Been thatching a bit onthe chin, eh? Foreign parts has made a man of you, Peter. The straightyou're like the family, too! You'll be coming up to the trough withme--the ould home, you know. I'll be whipping the chiss ashore in ajiffy, only Cæsar's that eager to help, it's wonderful. No, you'll notthen?"

Pete was shaking his head as he went up the gangway, and seeing this, Cæsar said severely--

"Lave the gentleman alone, Mr. Quilliam. He knows his own businessbest. "

"So do you, Mr. Collecting Box, " said Black Tom. "But your head's asempty as a mollag, and as full of wind as well. It's a regular ouldhuman mollag you are, anyway, floating other people's nets and takingall that's coming to them. "

They were ashore by this time; one of the quay porters was puttingthe trunk into the gig, and Cæsar was removing the horse-cloth and thenose-bag. 

"Get up, Mr. Peter, and don't listen to him, " said Cæsar. "Ifmy industry and integrity have been blessed with increase underProvidence----"

"Lave Providence out of it, you grasping ould Ebenezer, Zachariah, Amen, " bawled Black Tom. 

"You've been flying in the face of Providence all your life, Tom, " saidCæsar, taking his seat beside Pete. 

"You haven't though, you miser, " said Black Tom; "you'd sell your soulfor sixpence, and you'd raffle your ugly ould body if you could getanybody to take tickets. "

"Go home, Thomas, " said Cæsar, twiddling the reins, "go home and try forthe future to be a better man. "

But that was too much for Black Tom. "Better man, is it? Come down onthe quay and up with your fiss, and I'll show you which of us is thebetter man. "

A moment later Cæsar and Pete were rattling over the cobbles of themarket-place, with the dog racing behind. Pete was full of questions. 

"And how's yourself, Mr. Cregeen?"

"I'm in, sir, I'm in, sir, praise the Lord. "

"And Grannie?"

"Like myself, sir, not getting a dale younger, but caring little forspiritual things, though. "

"Going west, is she, poor ould angel? There ought to be a good piece ofdaylight at her yet, for all. And--and Nancy Joe?"

"A happy sinner still, " said Cæsar. "I suppose, sir, you'd be makinggood money out yonder now? We were hearing the like, anyway. "

"Money!" said Pete. "Well, yes. Enough to keep off the divil and thecoroner. But how's--how's----"

"There now! For life, eh?" said Cæsar. 

"Yes, for life; but that's nothing, " said Pete; "how's----"

"Wonderful!" cried Cæsar; "five years too! Boy veen, the light wasnearly took out of my eyes when I saw you. "

"But Kate? How's Kate? How's the girl, herself?" said Pete nervously. 

"Smart uncommon, " said Cæsar. 

"God bless her!" cried Pete, with a shout that was heard across thestreet. 

"We'll pick her up at Crellin's, it's like, " said Cæsar. 

"What? Crellin's round the corner--Crellin the draper's I Woa! Let medown! The mare's tired, father;" and Pete was over the wheel at a bound. 

He came out of the shop saying Kate had left word that her father wasnot to wait for her--she would perhaps be home before him. Amid a crowdof the "mob beg" children of the streets, to whom he showered coppersto be scrambled for, Pete got up again to Cæsar's side, and they set offfor Sulby. The wind had risen suddenly, and was hooting down the narrowstreets coming up from the harbour. 

"And Philip? How's Philip?" shouted Pete. 

"Mr. Christian? Well and hearty, and doing wonders, sir. "

"I knew it, " cried Pete, with a resounding laugh. 

"Going like a flood, and sweeping everything before him, " said Cæsar. 

"The rising day with him, is it?" said Pete. "I always said he'd be thefirst man in the island, and he's not going to deceave me neither. "

"The young man's been over putting a sight on us times and times--he wasup at my Melliah only a week come Wednesday, " said Cæsar. 

"Man alive!" cried Pete; "him and me are same as brothers. "

"Then it wasn't true what they were writing in the letter, sir--thatyour black boys left you for dead?"

"They did that, bad luck to them, " said Pete; "but I was thinking it nosin to disappoint them, though. "

"Well, well! lying began with the world, and with the world it willend, " said Cæsar. 

As they passed Ballywhaine, Pete shouted into Cæsar's ear, above thewind that was roaring in the trees, and scattering the ripening leavesin clouds, "And how's Dross?"

"That wastrel? Aw, tearing away, tearing away, " said Cæsar. 

"Floating on the top of the tide, is he?" shouted Pete. 

"Maybe so, but the devil is fishing where yonder fellow's swimming, "answered Cæsar. 

"And the ould man--the Ballawhaine--still above the sod?" bawled Petebehind his hand. 

"Yes, but failing, failing, failing, " shouted Cæsar. "The world'sgetting too heavy for the man. Debts here, and debts there, and debtseverywhere. "

"Not much water in the harbour then, eh?" cried Pete. 

"No, but down on the rocks already, if it's only myself that knows it, "shouted Cæsar. 

When they had turned the Sulby Bridge, and come in sight of "The ManxFairy, " Pete's excitement grew wild, and he leaped up from his seat andshouted above the wind like a man possessed. 

"My gough, the very place! You've been thatching, though--yes, you have. The street! Holy sailor, there it is! Brownie at you still? Her heifer, is it? Get up, Molly! A taste of the whip'll do the mare no harm, sir. My sakes, here's ould Flora hobbling out to meet us. Got the rheumatics, has she? Set me down, Cæsar. Here we are, man. Lord alive, the smell ofthe cowhouse. That warm and damp, it's grand! What, don't you know me, Flo? Got your temper still, if you've lost your teeth? My sakes, thehaggard! The same spot again! It's turf they're burning inside! And, my gracious, that's herrings roasting in their brine! Where's Grannie, though? Let's put a sight in, Cæsar. Well, well, aw well, aw well!"

Thus Pete came home, laughing, shouting, bawling, and bellowing abovethe tumult of the wind, which had risen by this time to the strength ofa gale. 

"Mother, " cried Cæsar, going in at the porch, "gentleman here fromforeign parts to put a word on you. "

"I never had nobody there belonging to me, " began Grannie. 

"No, then, nobody?" said Cæsar. 

"One that was going to be, maybe, if he'd lived, poor boy----"

"Grannie!" shouted Pete, and he burst into the bar-room. 

"Goodness me!" cried Grannie; "it's his own voice anyway. "

"It's himself, " shouted Pete, and the old soul was in his arms in aninstant. 

"Aw dear! Aw dear!" she panted. "Pete it is for sure. Let me sit down, though. "

"Did you think it was his ghost, then, mother!" said Cæsar with anindulgent air. 

"'Deed no, " said Grannie. "The lad wouldn't come back to plague nobody, thinks I. "

"Still, and for all the uprisement of Peter, it bates everything, " saidCæsar. "It's a sort of a resurrection. I thought I'd have a sight upto the packet for his chiss, poor fellow, and, behould ye, who should Imeet in the two eyes but the man himself!"

"Aw, dear! It's wonderful I it's terrible! I'm silly with the joy, " saidGrannie. 

"It was lies in the letter the Manx ones were writing, " said Cæsar. 

"Letters and writings are all lies, " said Grannie. "As long as I liveI'll take no more of them, and if that Kelly, the postman, comes hereagain, I'll take the bellows to him. "

"So you thought I was gone for good, Grannie?" said Pete. "Well, Ithought so too. 'Will I die?' I says to myself times and times; but Ibethought me at last there wasn't no sense in a good man like me lavinghis bones out on the bare Veldt yonder; so, you see, I spread my wingsand came home again. "

"It's the Lord's doings--it's marvellous in our eyes, " said Cæsar; andGrannie, who had recovered herself and was bustling about, cried--

"Let me have a right look at him, then. Goodness me, the whisker! And assoft as Manx carding from the mill, too. I like him best when he takesoff his hat. Well, I'm proud to see you, boy. 'Deed, but I wouldn't haveknown you, though. 'Who's the gentleman in the gig with father?' thinksI. And I'd have said it was the Dempster himself, if he hadn't been deadand in his coffin. "

"That'll do, that'll do, " roared Pete. "That's Grannie putting the funon me. "

"It's no use talking, but I can't keep quiet; no I can't, " criedGrannie, and with that she whipped up a bowl from the kitchen dresserand fell furiously to peeling the potatoes that were there for supper. 

"But where's Kate?" said Pete. 

"Aw, yes, where is she? Kate! Kate!" called Grannie, leaning her headtoward the stairs, and Nancy Joe, who had been standing silent untilnow, said----

"Didn't she go to Ramsey with the gig, woman?"

"Aw, the foolish I am! Of course she did, " said Grannie; "but why hasn'tshe come back with father?"

"She left word at Crellin's not to wait, " said Cæsar. 

"She'll be gone to Miss Clucas's to try on, " said Nancy. 

"Wouldn't trust now, " said Grannie. "She's having two new dresses done, Pete. Aw, girls are ter'ble. Well, can you blame them either?"

"She shall have two-and-twenty if she likes, God bless her, " said Pete. 

"Goodness me!" said Nancy, "is the man for buying frocks for a Mormon?"

"But you'll be empty, boy. Put the crow down and the griddle on, Nancy, "said Grannie. "We'll have cakes. Cakes? Coorse I said cakes. Get methe cloth and I'll lay it myself. The cloth, I'm saying, woman. Did younever hear of a tablecloth? Where is it? Aw, dear knows where it isnow! It's in the parlour; no, it's in the chest on the landing; no, it'sunder the sheets of my own bed. Fetch it, bogh. "

"Will I bring you a handful of gorse, mother?" said Cæsar. 

"Coorse you will, and not stand chattering there. But I'm laving youdry, Pete. Is it ale you'll have, or a drop of hard stuff? You'll waitfor Kate? Now I like that. There's some life at these totallers. 'Steadyabroad?' How dare you, Nancy Joe? You're a deal too clever. Of coursehe's been steady abroad--steady as a gun. "

"But Kate, " said Pete, tramping the sanded floor, "is she changed atall?"

"Aw, she's a woman now, boy, " said Grannie. 

"Bless my soul!" said Pete. 

"She was looking a bit white and narvous one while there, but she'ssprung out of it fresh and bright, same as the ling on the mountains. Well, that's the way with young women. "

"I know, " said Pete. "Just the break of the morning with the darlings. "

"But she's the best-looking girl on the island now, Pete, " said NancyJoe. 

"I'll go bail on it, " cried Pete. 

"Big and fine and rosy, and fit for anything. "

"Bless my heart!"

"You should have seen her at the Melliah; it was a trate. "

"God bless me!"

"Sun-bonnet and pink frock and tight red stockings, and straight as astandard rase. "

"Hould your tongue, woman, " shouted Pete. "I'll see herself first, andI'm dying to do it. "

Cæsar came back with the gorse; Nancy fed the fire and Grannie stirredthe oatmeal and water. And while the cakes were baking, Pete tramped thekitchen and examined everything and recognised old friends with a roar. 

"Bless me! the same place still. There's the clock on the shelf, withthe scratch on its face and the big finger broke at the joint, and thelath--and the peck--and the whip--you've had it new corded, though----"

"'Sakes, how the boy remembers!" cried Grannie. 

"And the white rumpy" (the cat had leapt on to the dresser out ofthe reach of Pete's dog, and from that elevation was eyeing himsteadfastly), "and the slowrie--and the kettle--and the poker--mygracious, the very poker----"

"Now, did you ever!" cried Grannie with amazement. 

"And--yes--no--it is, though--I'll swear it before theDempster--that's, " said Pete, picking up a three-legged stool, "that'sthe very stool she was sitting on herself in the fire-seat in front ofthe turf closet. Let me sit there now for the sake of ould times goneby. "

He put the stool in the fireplace and sat on it, shouting as he did sobetween a laugh and a cry, "Aw, Grannie, bogh--Grannie, bogh! to thinkthere's been half the world between us since I was sitting here before!"

And Grannie herself, breaking down, said, "Wouldn't you like the tongs, boy? Give the boy the tongs, woman, just to say he's at home. "

Pete plucked the tongs out of Nancy's hands, and began feeding thefire with the gorse. "Aw, Grannie, have I ever been away?" he cried, laughing, and his wet eyes gleaming. 

"Nancy Joe, have you no nose at all?" cried Grannie. "The cake's burningto a cinder. "

"Let it burn, mother, " shouted Pete. "It's the way she was doing herselfwhen she was young and forgetting. Shillings a-piece for all that'swasted. Aw, the smell of it's sweet!"

So saying he piled the gorse on the fire, ramming it under the griddleand choking it behind the crow. And while the oatcake crackled andsparched and went black, he sniffed up the burning odour, and laughedand cried in the midst of the smoke that went swirling up the chimney. 

And meanwhile, Grannie herself, with the tears rolling down her cheeks, was flapping her apron before her face and saying, "He'll make me die oflaughing, he will, though--yes, he will!" But behind the apron she wasblubbering to Nancy, "It's coming home, woman, that's it--it's justcoming home again, poor boy!"

By this time word of Pete's return had gone round Sulby? and thebar-room was soon thronged with men and women, who looked through theglass partition into the kitchen at the bronzed and bearded man who satsmoking by the fire, with his dog curled up at his feet. "There'll be awedding soon, " said one. "The girl's in luck, " said another. "Success tothe fine girl she always was, and lucky they kept her from the poortoot that was beating about on her port bow. "--"The young Ballawhaine, eh?"--"Who else?"

Presently the dog went out to them, and, in default of its master, became a centre of excited interest. It was an old creature, with asettled look of age, and a gravity of expression that seemed to say hehad got over the follies of youth, and was now reserved and determinedto keep the peace. His back was curved in as if a cart-wheel had goneover his spine, he had gigantic ears, a stump of a tail, a coat thin andprickly like the bristles of a pig, but white and spotted with brown. 

"Lord save us! a queer dog, though--what's his breed at all?" said one;and then a resounding voice came from the kitchen doorway, saying--

"A sort of a Manxman crossed with a bat. Got no tail to speak of, butthere's plenty of ears at him. A handy sort of a dog, only a bit spoiledin his childhood. Not fit for much company anyway, and no more notion ofdacent behaviour than my ould shoe. Down, Dempster, down. "

It was Pete. He was greeted with loud welcomes, and soon filled the roomall round with the steaming odour of spirits and water. 

"You've the Manx tongue at you still, Mr. Quilliam, " said Jonaique; "andyou're calling the dog Dempster; what's that for at all?"

"For sake of the ould island, Mr. Jelly, and for the straight he's likeDempster Mylrea when he's a bit crooked, " said Pete. 

"The old man's dead, sir, " said John the Clerk. 

"You don't say?" said Pete. 

"Yes, though; the sun went down on him a Wednesday. The drink, sir, thedrink! I've been cutting a sod of his grave to-day. "

"And who's to be Dempster now?" asked Pete. "Who are they putting in forit?"

"Well, " said John the Clerk, "they're talking and talking, and some'ssaying this one and others that one; but the most is saying your ouldfriend Philip Christian. "

"I knew it--I always said it, " shouted Pete; "best man in the island, bar none. Oh, he'll not deceave me. "

The wind was roaring in the chimney, and the light was beginning tofail. Pete became restless, and walked to and fro, peering out atintervals by the window that looked on to the road. At this there wassome pushing and nudging and indulgent whispering. 

"It's the girl! Aw, be aisy with the like! Five years apart, be aisy!"

"The meadow's white with the gulls sitting together like parrots; what'sthat a sign of, father?" said Pete. 

"Just a slant of rain maybe, and a puff of wind, " said Cæsar. 

"But, " said Pete, looking up at the sky, "the long cat tail was goingoff at a slant awhile ago, and now the thick skate yonder is hangingmortal low. "

"Take your time, sir, " said Cæsar. "No need to send round the CrossVustha (fiery cross) yet. The girl will be home immadiently. "

"It'll be dark at her, though, " said Pete. 

The company tried to draw him into conversation about the ways of lifein the countries he had visited, but he answered absently and jerkily, and kept going to the door. 

"Suppose there'll be Dempsters enough where you're coming from?" saidJonaique. 

"Sort of Dempsters, yes. Called one of them Ould Necessity, because itknows no law. He rigged up the statute books atop of his stool for ahigh sate, and when he wanted them he couldn't find them high or low. Not the first judge that's sat on the law, though. . . . It's coming, Cæsar, d'ye hear it? That's the rain on the street. "

"Aisy, man, aisy, man, " said Cæsar. "New dresses isn't rigged up in notime. There'll be chapels now, eh? Chapels and conferences, and properreligious instruction?"

"Divil a chapel, sir, only a rickety barn, belonging to some-onesthey're calling the Sky Pilots to. Wanted the ould miser that runs it tobuild them a new tabernacle, but he wouldn't part till a lump of plasterfell on his bald head at a love-feast, and then he planked downa hundred pound, and they all shouted, 'Hit him again, Lord--youmight!'. . . D'ye hear that, then? That's the water coming down from thegill. I can't stand no more of it, Grannie. "

Grannie was at the door, struggling to hold it against the wind, whileshe looked out into the gathering darkness. "'Deed, but I'm gettingafraid of it myself, " she said, "and dear heart knows where Kirry can beat this time of night. " "I'm off to find her, " said Pete, and, catchingup his hat and whistling to the dog, in a moment he was gone. 

X. 

The door was hard to close behind him, for it was now blowing a galefrom the north-east. Cæsar slipped through the dairy to see if theoutbuildings were safe, and came back with a satisfied look. The stableand cow-house were barred, the barns were shut up, the mill-wheel was onthe brake, the kiln fire was burning gently, and all was snug and tight. Grannie was wringing her hands as he returned, crying "Kate! Oh, Kate!"and he reproved her for want of trust in Providence. 

People were now coming in rapidly with terrible stories of damage doneby the storm. It was reported that the Chicken Rock Lighthouse was blowndown, that the tide had risen to twenty-five feet in Ramsey and torn upthe streets, and that a Peel fisherman had been struck by his mainsailinto the sea and drowned. 

More came into the house at every minute, and among them were all thelonesome and helpless ones within a radius of a mile--Blind Jane, whocharmed blood, but could not charm the wind; Shemiah, the prophet, withbeard down to his waist and a staff up to his shoulder; and old JuanVessy, who "lived on the houses" in the way of a tramp. The peoplewho had been there already were afraid to go out, and Grannie, stillwringing her hands and crying "Kate, Kate, " called everybody into thekitchen to gather about the fire. There they bemoaned their boys on thesea, told stories of former storms, and quarrelled about the years ofwrecks and the sources of the winds that caused them. 

The gale increased to fearful violence, and sometimes the wind soundedlike sheets flapping against the walls, sometimes like the deep boom ofthe waves that roll on themselves in mid-ocean and never know a shore. It began to groan in the chimney as if it were a wild beast strugglingto escape, and then the smoke came down in whorls and filled thekitchen. They had to put out the fire to keep themselves fromsuffocation, and to sit back from the fireplace to protect themselvesfrom cold. The door of the porch flew open, and they barricaded it withlong-handled brushes; the windows rattled in their frames, and theyblocked them up with the tops of the tables. In spite of all effortsto shut out the wind, the house was like a basket, and it quaked like aship at sea. "I never heard the like on the water itself, and I'm usedof the sea, too, " said one. The others groaned and mumbled prayers. 

Kelly the Thief, who had come in unopposed by Grannie, was on his kneesin one corner with his face to the wall, calling on the Lord to rememberthat he had seen things in letters--stamps and such--but had nevertouched them. John the Clerk was saying that he had to bury theDeemster; Jonaique, the barber, that he had been sent for to "cut" theBishop; and Claudius Kewley, the farmer, that he had three fields ofbarley still uncut and a stack of oats unthatched. "Oh, Lord, " criedClaudius, "let me not die till I've got nothing to do!"

Cæsar stood like a strong man amidst their moans and groans, theirbowings of the head and clappings of the hands, and, when he heard thefarmer, his look was severe. 

"Cloddy, " said he, "how do you dare to doubt the providence of God?"

"Aisy to talk, Mr. Cregeen, " the farmer whined, "but you've got your ownharvest saved, " and then Cæsar had no resource but to punish the man inprayer. "The Lord had sent His storm to reprove some that were makingtoo sure of His mercies; but there was grace in the gale, only theywouldn't be patient and trust to God's providence; there was milk inthe breast, only the wayward child wouldn't take time to find the teat. Lord, lead them to true stillness----"

In the midst of Cæsar's prayer there was a sudden roar outside, and heleapt abruptly to his feet with a look of vexation. "I believe in myheart that's the mill-wheel broken loose, " said he, "and if it is, thecorn on the kiln will be going like a whirlingig. "

"Trust in God's providence, Cæsar, " cried the farmer. 

"So I will, " said Cæsar, catching up his hat, "but I'll put out my kilnfire first. "

When Pete stepped out of the porch, he felt himself smitten as by aninvisible wing, and he gasped like a fish with too much air. A quickpain in the side at that moment reminded him of his bullet-wound, but his heels had heart in them, and he set off to run. The night hadfallen, but a green rent was torn in the leaden sky, and through thisthe full moon appeared. 

When he got to Ramsey the tide was up to the old cross, slates wereflying like kites, and the harbour sounded like a battlefield with itsthunderous roar of rigging. He made for the dressmaker's, and heard thatKate had not been there for six hours. At the draper's he learned thatat two o'clock in the afternoon she had been seen going up Ballure. Thesound rocket was fired as he pushed through the town. A schooner ridingto an anchor in the bay was flying her ensign for help. The sea wasterrific--a slaty grey, streaked with white foam like quartz veins; butthe men who had been idling on the quay when the water was calm were nowstruggling, chafing, and fighting to go out on it, for the blood of theold Vikings was in them. 

Going by the water-trough, Pete called on Black Tom, who was civiland conciliatory until he heard his errand, then growled withdisappointment, but nevertheless answered his question. Yes, he hadseen the young woman. She went up early in the "everin, " and left himgood-day. Giving this grateful news, Black Tom could not deny himselfa word of bitterness to poison the pleasure. "And when you are findingher, " said he, "you'll be doing well to take her in tow, for I'mthinking there's some that's for throwing her a rope. "

"Who d'ye mane?" said Pete. 

"I lave it with you, " said Black Tom; and Pete pulled the door afterhim. 

On the breast of the hill there was the meeting of two roads, one ofthem leading up to the "Hibernian, " the other going down to Port Mooar. To resolve the difficulty of choice, Pete inquired at a cottage standingsome paces beyond, and as Kate had not been seen to pass up the higherroad, he determined to take the lower one. But he gathered no tidingsby the way, for Billy by the mill knew nothing, and the woman by thesundial had gone to bed. At length he dipped into Port Mooar, and cameto a little cottage like a child's Noah's ark, with its tiny porch andred light inside, looking out on the white breakers that were racingalong the beach. It was the cottage of the lobster-fisher. Pete inquiredif he had seen Kate. He answered no; he had seen nobody that day but Mr. Christian. Which of the Christians? Mr. Philip Christian. 

The news carried only one message to Pete's mind. It seemed to explainsomething which had begun to perplex him--why Philip had not met him atthe quay, and why Kate had not heard of his coming. Clearly Philip wasat present at Ballure. He had not yet received the telegram addressed toDouglas. 

Pete turned back. Surely Kate had called somewhere. She would be at homeby this time. He tried to run, but the wind was now in his face. It wasveering northwards every minute, and rising to the force of a hurricane. He tied his handkerchief over his head and under his chin to hold on hishat. His hair whipped his ears like rods. Sometimes he was swept intothe hedge; often he was brought to his knees. Still he toiled alongthrough sheets of spray that glistened with the colours of a rainbow, and ran over the ground like driven rain. His eyes smarted, and thetaste on his lips was salt. 

The moon was now riding at the full through a wild flecked sky, andPete could clearly see, as he returned towards the bay, a crowd of humanfigures on the cliffs above Port Lewaige. Quaking with undefined fears, he pushed on until he had joined them. The schooner, abandoned by hercrew, had parted her cable, and was rolling like a blinded porpoisetowards the rocks. She fell on them with the groan of a living creature, and, the instant her head was down, the white lions of the sea leaptover her with a howl, the water swirled through her bulwarks and filledher hatches, her rudder was unshipped, her sails were torn from theirgaskets, and the floating home wherein men had sailed, and sung, and slept, and laughed, and jested, was a broken wreck in the heavywallowings of the waves. 

Kate had not returned when Pete got back to Sulby, but the excitement ofher absence was eclipsed for the time by the turmoil of Cæsar's trouble. Standing in the dark on the top of the midden, he was shouting to thedairy door in a voice of thunder, which went off at the end of hisbeard like the puling of a cat. The mill-wheel was going same as a"whirlingig"--was there nobody to "hould the brake?" The stable roof wasstripped, and the mare was tearing herself to pieces in a roaring "pitof hell"--was there never a shoulder for the door? The cow-house thatchwas flapping like a sail--was there nothing in the world but a woman(Nancy Joe) to help a man to throw a ladder and a stone over it?

Only when Cæsar had been pacified was there silence to speak of Kate. "Ipicked up news of her coming back by Claughbane, " said Pete, "and tracedher as near home as the 'Ginger. ' She can't be far away. Where is she?"

Those who were cool enough fell to conjecture. Grannie had no resourcebut groans. Nancy was moaning by her side. The rest were full of theirown troubles. Blind Jane was bewailing her affliction. 

"You can all see, " she cried, "but I'm not knowing the harm that'scoming on me. "

"Hush, woman, hush, " said Pete; "we're all same as yourself half ourlives--we're all blind at night. "

In the midst of the tumult a knock came to the door, and Pete made aplunge towards the porch. 

"Wait, " cried Cæsar. "Nobody else comes here to-night except the girlherself. Another wind like the last and we'll have the roof off thehouse too. "

Then he called to the new-comer, with his face to the porch door, andthe answer came back to him in a wail like the wind itself. 

"Who's there?"

It was Joney from the glen. 

"We're like herrings in a barrel--we can't let you in. "

She wasn't wanting to come in. But her roof was going stripping, andhalf her house was felled, and she couldn't get her son (the idiot boy)to leave his bed. He would perish; he would die; he was all the familyshe had left to her--wouldn't the master come and save him?

"Impossible!" shouted Cæsar. "We've our own missing this fearful night, Joney, and the Lord will protect His children. "

Was it Kate? She had seen her in the glen----

"Let me get at that door, " said Pete. 

"But the house will come down, " cried Cæsar. 

"Let it come, " said Pete. 

Pete shut the door of the bar-room, and then the wind was heard to swirlthrough the porch. 

"When did you see her, Joney, and where?" said the voice of Pete; andthe voice of Joney answered him--

"Goings by my own house at the start of the storm this everin. "

"I'll come with you--go on, " said Pete, and Grannie shouted across thebar--

"Take Cæsar's topcoat over your monkey-jacket. "

"I've sail enough already for a wind like this, mother, " cried thevoice of Pete, and then the swirling sound in the porch went off with along-drawn whirr, and Cæsar came back alone to the kitchen. 

Pete's wound ached again, but he pressed his hand on the place of it andstruggled up the glen, dragging Joney behind him. They came to her houseat last. One half of the thatch lay over the other half; the rafterswere bare like the ribs of the wreck; the oat-cake peck was rattling onthe lath; the meal-barrel in the corner was stripped of its lid, andthe meal was whirling into the air like a waterspout; the dresser wasstripped, the broken crockery lay on the uncovered floor, and the ironslowrie hanging over the place of the fire was swinging and strikingagainst the wall, and ringing like a knell. And in the midst of thisscene of desolation the idiot boy was placidly sleeping on his nakedbed, and over it the moon was scudding through a tattered sky. 

The night wore on, and the company in the kitchen listened long, andsometimes heard sounds as of voices crying in the wind, but Pete did notreturn. Then they fell to groaning again, to praying aloud without fear, and to confessing their undiscovered sins without shame. 

"I'm searched terrible--I can see through me, " cried Kelly, the postman. 

Some were chiefly troubled lest death should fall on them while theywere in a public-house. 

"I keep none, " cried Cæsar. 

"But you wouldn't let us open the door, " whined the farmer. 

If the door had been wide enough for a Bishop, not a soul would havestirred. For the first time within anyone's recollection, Nancy Joe wason her knees. 

"O Lord, " she prayed, "Thou knowest well I don't often bother Thee. But save Kate, Lord; oh, save and prasarve my little Kirry! It's twentyyears and better since I asked anything of Thee before and if Thou wiltonly take away this wind, I'll promise not to say another prayer fortwenty years more. "

"Say it in Manx, woman, " moaned Grannie. "I always say my prayers inManx as well, and the Lord can listen to the one He knows best. "

"There's prayer as well as praise in singing, " cried Cæsar; and theybegan to sing, all down on their knees, their eyes tightly closed, andtheir hands clasped before their faces. They sang of heaven and itspeaceful plains, its blue lakes and sunny skies, its golden cities andemerald gates, its temples and its tabernacles, where "congregationsne'er break up and Sabbaths never end. " It was some comfort to drownwith the wild discord of their own voices the fearful noises of thetempest. When they finished the hymn, they began on it again, keepingit up without a break, sweeping the dying note of the last word intothe rising pitch of the first one. In the midst of their singing, they thought a fiercer gust than ever was beating on the door, and, tosmother the fear of it, they sang yet louder. The gust came a secondtime, and Cæsar cried--

"Again, brothers, " and away they went with another wild whoop throughthe hymn. 

It came a third time, and Cæsar cried--

"Once more, beloved, " and they raced madly through the hymn again. 

Then the door burst open as before a tremendous kick, and Pete, fierceand wild-eyed, and green with the drift of the salt foam caked thick onhis face, stepped over the threshold with the unconscious body of Katein his arms and the idiot boy peering over his shoulder. 

"Thank the Lord for an answer to prayer, " cried Cæsar. "Where did youfind her?"

"In the tholthan up the glen, " said Pete. "Up in the witch's tholthan. "

XI. 

On the second morning afterwards the air was quiet and full of the odourof seaweed; the sky was round as the inside of a shell, and pale pinklike the shadow of flame; the water was smooth and silent; the hillshad lost the memory of the storm, and land and sea lay like a sleepingchild. 

In this broad and steady morning Kate came back to consciousness. Shehad slid out of delirium into sleep as a boat slides out of the opensea into harbour, and when she awoke there was a voice in her ears thatseemed to be calling to her from the quay. It was a familiar voice, andyet it was unfamiliar; it was like the voice of a friend heard for thefirst time after a voyage. It seemed to come from a long way off, andyet to be knocking at the very door of her heart. She kept her eyesclosed for a moment and listened; then she opened them and looked again. 

The light was clouded and yet dazzling, as if glazed muslin wereshaking before her eyes. Grannie was sitting by her bedside, knitting insilence. 

"Why are you sitting there, mother?" she asked. 

Grannie dropped her needles and caught at her apron. "Dear heart alive, the child's herself again!" she said. 

"Has anything happened?" said Kate. "What time is it?"

"Monday morning, bogh, thank the Lord for all His mercies!" criedGrannie. 

The familiar voice came again. It came from the direction of the stairs. "Who's that?" said Kate, whispering fearfully. 

"Pete himself, Kirry. Aw well! Aw dear!"

"Pete!" cried Kate in terror. 

"Aw, no, woman, but a living man come back again. No fear of him, bogh!Not dead at all, but worth twenty dead men yet, and he brought you safeout of the storm. "

"The storm?"

"Yes, the storm, woman. There warn such a storm on the island I don'tknow the years. He found you in the tholthan up the glen. Lost your wayin the wind, it's like, and no wonder. But let me call father. Father!father! Chut! the man's as deaf as little Tom Hommy. Father!" calledGrannie, bustling about at the stair-head in a half-demented way. 

There was some commotion below, and the voice on the stairs was saying, "_This_ way? No, _sir_. That way, if _you_ plaze. "

"D'ye hear him, Kirry?" cried Grannie, putting her head back into theroom. "That's the man himself. Sitting on the bottom step same asan ould bulldog, and keeping watch that nobody bothers you. Thegood-naturedst bulldog breathing, though, and he hasn't had a wink onthe night. Saved your life, darling. He did; yes, he did, praise God. "

At mention of the tholthan, Kate had remembered everything. She droppedback on the pillow, and cried, in a voice of pain, "Why couldn't heleave me to die?"

Grannie chuckled knowingly at that, and wiped her eyes with the cornerof her apron. "The bogh is herself, for sure. When they're wishingthemselves dead they're always mending father! But I'll go downinstead. Lie still, bogh, lie still!"

The voice of Grannie went muffled down the stairs with many "Aw dears, aw dears!" and then crackled from below through the floor and theunceiled joists, saying sharply but with a tremor, too, "Nancy Joe, whyaren't you taking a cup of something upstairs, woman?"

"Goodness me, Mistress Cregeen, is it true for all?" said Nancy. 

"Why, of course it's true. Do you think a poor child is going fastingfor ever?"

"What's that?" shouted the familiar voice again. "Was it herself youwere spaking to in the dairy loft, Grannie?"

"Who else, man?" said Grannie, and then there was a general tumult. 

"Aw, the joy! Aw, the delight! Gough bless me, Grannie, I was thinkingshe was for spaking no more. "

"Out of the way, " cried Nancy, as if pushing past somebody to whip thekettle on to the fire. "These men creatures have no more rising in theirhearts than bread without balm. "

"You're balm enough yourself, Nancy, for a quiet husband. But lend me ahould of the bellows there--I'll blow up like blazes. "

Cæsar came into the house on the top of this commotion, grumbling ashe stepped over the porch, "The wind has taken half the stacks of myhaggard, mother. "

"No matter, sir, " shouted Pete. "The best of your Melliah is savedupstairs. "

"Is she herself?" said Cæsar. "Praise His name!"

And over the furious puffing and panting and quacking of the bellows andthe cracking and roaring of the fire, the voice of Pete came in guststhrough the floor, crying, "I'll go mad with the joy! I will; yes, Iwill, and nobody shall stop me neither. "

The house, which seemed to have been holding its breath since the storm, now broke into a ripple of laughter. It began in the kitchen, it ran upthe stairs, it crept through the chinks in the floor, it went over theroof. But Kate lay on her pillow and moaned, and turned her face to thewall. 

Presently Nancy Joe appeared in the bedroom, making herself tidy at thedoorway with a turn of the hand over her hair. "Mercy on me!" she cried, clapping her hands at the first sight of Kate's face, "who was theborn blockhead that said the girl's wedding was as like to be in thechurchyard as in the church?"

"That's me, " said a deep voice from the middle of the stairs, and thenNancy clashed the door back and poured Pete into Kate in a broadside. 

"It was Pete that done it, though, " she said. "You can't expect muchsense of the like, but still and for all he saved your life, Kitty. Dr. Mylechreest says so. 'If the girl had been lying out another hour, ' sayshe----And, my goodness, the fond of you that man is; it's wonderful!Twisting and turning all day yesterday on the bottom step yonder same asa live conger on the quay, but looking as soft about the eyes as if he'dbeen a week out of the water. And now! my sakes, _now!_ D'ye hear him, Kirry? He's fit to burst the bellows. No use, though--he's a shockingfine young fellow--he's all that. . . . But just listen!"

There was a fissing sound from below, and a sense of burning. "What doI always say? You can never trust a man to have sense enough to take itoff. That's the kettle on the boil. "

Nancy went flopping downstairs, where with furious words she rated Pete, who laughed immoderately. Cæsar came next. He had taken off his bootsand was walking lightly in his stockings; but Kate felt his approach byhis asthmatic breathing. As he stepped in at the door he cried, in thehigh pitch of the preacher, "Praise the Lord, O my soul, and all that iswithin me praise His holy name!" Then he fell to the praise of Pete aswell. 

"He brought you out of the jaws of death and the mouth of Satan. Itwas a sign, Katherine, and we can't do better than follow the Spirit'sleading. He saved your life, woman, and that's giving him the right tohave and to hould it. Well, I've only one child in this life, but, ifit's the Lord's will, I'm willing. He was always my white-headed boy, and he has made his independent fortune in a matter of five years'time. "

The church bell began to toll, and Kate started up and listened. 

"Only the Dempster's funeral, Kitty, " said Cæsar. "They were for buryinghim to-morrow, but men that drink don't keep. They'll be putting him inthe family vault at Lezayre with his father, the staunch ould Rechabite. Many a good cow has a bad calf, you see, and that's bad news for a man'schildren; but many a good calf is from a bad cow, and that's good newsfor the man himself. It's been the way with Peter anyway, for theLord has delivered him and prospered him, and I'm hearing on the bestauthority he has five thousand golden sovereigns sent home to Mr. Dumbell's bank at Douglas. "

Grannie came up with a basin of beef-tea, and Cæsar was hustled out ofthe room. 

"Come now, bogh; take a spoonful, and I'll lave you to yourself, " saidGrannie. 

"Yes, leave me to myself, " said Kate, sipping wearily; and then Granniewent off with the basin in her hand. 

"Has she taken it?" said some one below. 

"Look at that, if you plaze, " said Grannie in a jubilant tone; and Kateknew that the empty basin was being shown around. 

Kate lay back on the pillow, listened to the tolling of the bell, andshuddered. She thought it a ghostly thing that the first voice she hadheard on coming as from another world had been the voice of Pete, andthe first name dinned into her ears had been Pete's name. The processionof the Deemster's funeral passed the house, and she closed her eyesand seemed to see it--the coffin on the open cart, the men on horsebackriding beside it, and then the horses tied up to posts and gatesabout the churchyard, and the crowd of men of all conditions at thegrave-side. In her mind's eye, Kate was searching through that crowd forsomebody. Was _he_ there? Had he heard what had happened to her?

She fell into a doze, and was awakened by a horse's step on the road, and the voices of two men talking as they came nearer. 

"Man alive, the joy I'm taking to see you! The tallygraph? Coorse not. Knew I'd find you at the funeral, though. " It was Pete. 

"But I meant to come over after it. " It was Philip, and Kate's heartstood still. 

The voices were smothered for a moment (as the buzzing is when the beesenter the hive), and then began with as sharper ring from the roomsbelow. 

"How's she now, Mrs. Cregeen?" said the voice of Philip. 

"Better, sir--much better, " answered Grannie. 

"No return of the unconsciousness?"

"Aw, no, " said Grannie. 

"Was she"--Kate thought the voice faltered--"was she delirious?"

"Not rambling at all, " replied Grannie. 

"Thank God, " said Philip, and Kate felt a long breath of relief gothrough the air. 

"I didn't hear of it until this morning, " said Philip. "The postman toldme at breakfast-time, and I called on Dr. Mylechreest coming out. If Ihad known----I didn't sleep much last night, anyway; but if I had everimagined----"

"You're right good to the girl, sir, " said Grannie, and then Kate, listening intently, caught a quavering sound of protestation. 

"'Deed you are, though, and always have been, " said Grannie, "and I'msaying it before Pete here, that ought to know and doesn't. "

"Don't I, though?" came in the other voice--the resounding voice--thevoice full of laughter and tears together. "But I do that, Grannie, sameas if I'd been here and seen it. Lave it to me to know Phil Christian. I've summered and wintered the man, haven't I? He's timber that doesn'tstart, mother, blow high, blow low. "

Kate heard another broken sound as of painful protest, and then with asickening sense she covered up her head that she might hear no more. 

XII. 

She was weak and over-wrought, and she fell asleep as she lay covered. While she slept a babel of meaningless voices kept clashing in her ears, and her own voice haunted her perpetually. When she awoke it wasbroad morning again, and the house was full of the smell of boilingstock-fish. By that she knew it was another day, and the hour of earlybreakfast. She heard the click of cups and saucers on the kitchen table, the step of her father coming in from the mill, and then the heartsomevoice of Pete talking of the changes in the island since he wentaway. New houses, promenades, iron piers, breakwaters, lakes, towers--wonderful I extraordinary! tre-menjous!

"But the boys--w here's the Manx boys at all?" said Pete. "Gone like aflight of birds to Austrillya and Cleveland and the Cape, and I don'tknow where. Not a Manx house now that hasn't one of the boys foreign. And the houses themselves--where's the ould houses and the crofts?Felled, all felled or boarded up. And the boats--where's the boats?Lying rotting at the top of the harbour. "

Grannie's step came into the kitchen, and Pete's loud voice drooped to awhisper. "How's herself this morning, mother?"

"Sleeping quiet and nice when I came downstairs, " said Grannie. 

"Will I be seeing her myself to-day, think you?" asked Pete. 

"I don't know in the world, but I'll ask, " answered Grannie. 

"You're an angel, Grannie, " said Pete, "a reg'lar ould archangel. "

Kate shuddered with a new fear. It was clear that in the eyes of herpeople the old relations with Pete were to stand. Everybody expected herto marry Pete; everybody seemed anxious to push the marriage on. 

Grannie came up with her breakfast, pulled aside the blind, and openedthe window. 

"Nancy will tidy the room a taste, " she said coaxingly, "and then Ishouldn't wonder if you'll be sending for Pete. "

Kate raised a cry of alarm. 

"Aw, no harm when a girl's poorly, " said Grannie, "and her promist manfor all. "

Kate tried to protest and explain, but courage failed her. She onlysaid, "Not yet, mother. I'm not fit to see him yet. "

"Say no more about it. Not to-day at all--to-morrow maybe, " saidGrannie, and Kate clutched at the word, and answered eagerly--

"Yes, tomorrow, mother; to-morrow maybe. "

Before noon Philip had come again. Kate heard his horse's step on theroad, trotting hard from the direction of Peel. He drew up at the porch, but did not alight, and Grannie went out to him. 

"I'll not come in to-day, Mrs. Cregeen, " he said. "Does she continue toimprove?"

"As nice as nice, sir, " said Grannie. 

Kate crept out of bed, stole to the window, hid behind the curtains, andlistened intently. 

"What a mercy all goes well, " he said; Kate could hear the heaving ofhis breath. "Is Pete about?"

"No, but gone to Ramsey, sir, " said Grannie. "It's like you'll meet himif you are going on to Ballure. "

"I must be getting back to business, " said Philip, and the horse swirledacross the road. 

"Did you ride from Douglas on purpose, then?" said Grannie, and Philipanswered with an audible effort--

"I was anxious. What an escape she has had! I could scarcely sleep lastnight for thinking of it. "

Kate put her hand to her throat to keep back the cry that was bubblingup, and her mother's voice came thick and deep. 

"The Lord's blessing. Master Philip----" she began, but the horse's feetstamped out everything as it leapt to a gallop in going off. 

Kate listened where she knelt until the last beat of the hoofs had diedaway in the distance, and then she crept back to bed and covered up herhead in the clothes as before, but with a storm of other feelings. "Heloves me, " she told herself with a thrill of the heart. "He lovesme--he loves me still! And he will never, never, never see me married toanybody else. "

She felt an immense relief now, and suddenly found strength to think offacing Pete. It even occurred to her to send for him at once, as a firststep towards removing the impression that the old relations were toremain. She would be quiet, she would be cold, she would show by hermanner that Pete was impossible, she would break the news gently. 

Pete came like the light at Nancy's summons. Kate heard him on thestairs whispering with Nancy and breathing heavily. Nancy was hectoringit over him and pulling him about to make him presentable. 

"Here, " whispered Nancy, "take the redyng comb and lash your hair out, it's all through-others. And listen--you've got to be quiet. Promiseme you'll be quiet. She's wake and low and nervous, so no kissing. D'yehear me now, no kissing. "

"Aw, kissing makes no noise to spake of, woman, " whispered Pete; andthen he was in the room. 

Kate saw him come, a towering dark figure between her and the door. Hedid not speak at first, but slid down to the chair at the foot of thebed, modestly, meekly, reverently, as if he had entered a sanctuary. Hishand rested on his knee, and she noticed that the wrist was hairy andtattooed with the three legs of Man. 

"Is it you, Pete?" she asked; and then he said in a low tone, almost ina whisper, as if speaking to himself in a hush of awe--

"It's her own voice again! I've heard it in my drames these five years. "

He looked helplessly about him for a moment, fixed his watery eyes onNancy as if he wanted to burst into sobs but dare not for fear of thenoise, then turned on his chair and seemed on the point of taking toflight. But just at that instant his dog, which had followed him intothe room, planted its forelegs on the counterpane and looked impudentlyinto Kate's face. 

"Down, Dempster, down!" cried Pete; and after that, the ice being brokenby the sound of his voice, Pete was his own man once more. 

"Is that your dog, Pete?" said Kate. 

"Aw, no, Kate, but I'm his man, " said Pete. "He does what he likes withme, anyway. Caught me out in Kimber-ley and fetched me home. "

"Is he old?"

"Old, d'ye say? He's one of the lost ten tribes of dogs, and behaves asif he'd got to inherit the earth. "

She felt Pete's big black eyes shining on her. 

"My gracious, Kitty, what a woman you're growing, though!" he said. 

"Am I so much changed?" she asked. 

"Changed, is it?" he cried. "Gough bless me heart! the nice littlething you were when we used to play fishermen together down at CornaaHarbour--d'ye remember? The ould kipper-box rolling on a block fora boat at sea--do you mind it? Yourself houlding a bit of a brokenbroomstick in the rope handle for a mast, and me working thepotato-dibber on the ground, first port and then starboard, for rudderand wind and oar and tide. 'Mortal dirty weather this, cap'n?' 'Aw, yes, woman, big sea extraordinary'--d'ye mind it, Kirry!"

Kate tried to laugh a little and to say what a long time ago it wassince then. But Pete, being started, laughed uproariously, slapped hisknee, and rattled on. 

"Up at the mill, too--d'ye remember that now? Yourself with the top ofa barrel for a flower basket, holding it 'kimbo at your lil hip andshouting, 'Violets! Swate violets! Fresh violets!'" (He mocked hersilvery treble in his lusty baritone and roared with laughter. )

"And then me, woman, d'ye mind me?--me, with the pig-stye gate atop ofmy head for a fish-board, yelling, 'Mackerel! Fine ladies, fresh ladies, and bellies as big as bishops--Mack-er-el!' Aw, Kirry, Kirry! Aw, thedear ould times gone by! Aw, the changes, the changes!. . . Did I _know_you then? Are you asking me did I know you when I found you in the glen?Did I know I was alive, Kitty? Did I know the wind was howling? Did Iknow my head was going round like a compass, and my heart thumping ahundred and twenty pound to the square inch? Did I kiss you and kiss youwhile you were lying there useless, and lift you up and hitch your poorlimp arms around my neck, and carry you out of the dirty ould tholthanthat was going to be the death of you--the first job I was doing onthe island, too, coming back to it. . . . Lord save us, Kitty, what have Idone?"

Kate had dropped back on the pillow, and was sobbing as if her heartwould break, and seeing this, Nancy fell on Pete with loud reproaches, took the man by the shoulders and his dog by the neck, and pushed bothout of the room. 

"Out of it, " cried Nancy. "Didn't I tell you to be quiet? You greatblethering omathaun, you shall come no more. "

Abashed, ashamed, humiliated, and quiet enough now, Pete went slowlydown the stairs. 

XIII. 

Late that night Kate heard Cæsar and her mother talking together as theywere going to bed. Cæsar was saying--

"I got him on the track of a good house, and he went off to Ramsey thismorning to put a sight on it. "

"Dear heart alive, father!" Grannie answered, "Pete isn't home till aweek come Saturday. "

"The young man is warm on the wedding, " said Cæsar, "and he has money, and store is no sore. "

"But the girl's not fit for it, 'deed she isn't, " said Grannie. 

"If she's wake, " said Cæsar, "shell be no worse for saying 'I will, ' andwhen she's said it she'll have time enough to get better. "

Kate trembled with fear. The matter of her marriage with Pete was goingon without her. A sort of supernatural power seemed to be pushing italong. Nobody asked if she wished it, nobody questioned that she did so. It was taken for granted that the old relations would stand. As soonas she could go about she would be expected to marry Pete. Pete himselfwould expect it, because he believed he had her promise; her motherwould expect it, because she had always thought of it as a thingunderstood; her father would expect it, because Pete's prosperity hadgiven him a new view of Pete's piety and pedigree; and Nancy Joewould expect it, too, if only because she was still haunted by her oldbugbear, the dark shadow of Ross Christian. There was only one way tobreak down these expectations, and that was to speak out. But how was agirl to speak? What was she to say?

Kate pretended to be ill. Three days longer she lay, like a hunted wolfin its hole, keeping her bed from sheer dread of the consequences ofleaving it. The fourth day was Sunday. It was morning, and the churchbells were ringing. Cæsar had shouted from his bedroom for some one totie his bow, then for some one to button his black gloves. He had goneoff at length with the footsteps of the people stepping round to chapel. The first hymn had been started, and its doleful notes were trailingthrough the mill walls. Kate was propped up in bed, and the window ofher room was open. Over the droning of the hymn she caught the sound ofa horse's hoofs on the road. They stopped at a little distance, and thencame on again, with the same two voices as before. 

Pete was talking with great eagerness. "Plenty of house, aw plenty, plenty, " he was saying. "Elm Cottage they're calling it--the slateone with the ould fir-tree behind the Coort House and by the lane toClaughbane. Dry as a bone and clane as a gull's wing. You could lie withyour back to the wall and ate off the floor. Taps inside and water aswhite as gin. I've been buying the cabin of the 'Mona's Isle' for asummer-house in the garden. Got a figurehead for the porch too, andI'll have an anchor for the gate before I'm done. Aw, I'm bound to haveeverything nice for her. "

There was a short silence, in which nothing was heard but the step ofthe horse, and then Philip said in a faltering voice, "But isn't thisbeing rather in a hurry, Pete?"

"Short coorting's the best coorting, and ours has been long enoughanyway, " said Pete. They had drawn up at the porch, and Pete's laughcame in at the window. 

"But think how weak she is, " said Philip. "She hasn't even-left her bedyet, has she?"

"Well, yes, of coorse, sartenly, " said Pete, in a steadier voice, "ifthe girl isn't fit----"

"It's so sudden, you see, " said Philip. "Has she--has she--consented?"

"Not to say consented----" began Pete; and Philip took him up and saidquickly, eagerly, hotly--

"She can't--I'm sure she can't. "

There was silence again, broken only by the horse's impatient pawing, and then Philip said more calmly, "Let Dr. Mylechreest see her first, atall events. "

"I'm not a man for skinning the meadow to the sod, no----" said Pete, ina doleful tone; but Kate heard no more. 

She was trembling with a new thought. It was only a shadowy suggestionas yet, and at first she tried to beat it back. But it came again, itforced itself upon her, it mastered her, she could not resist it. 

The way to break the fate that was pursuing her was to make _Philip_speak out! The way to stop the marriage with Pete was to compel Philipto marry her! He thought she would never consent to marry Pete--what ifhe were given to understand that she had consented. That was the way togain the victory over Philip, the way to punish him!

He would not blame her--he would lay the blame at the door of chance, offate, of her people. He would think they were forcing this marriage uponher--the mother out of love of Pete, the father out of love of Pete'smoney, and Nancy out of fear of Ross Christian. He would know that shecould not struggle because she could not speak. He would believe she wasyielding against her will, in spite of her love, in the teeth oftheir intention. He would think of her as a victim, as a martyr, as asacrifice. 

It was a deceit--a small deceit; it looked so harmless, too--soinnocent, almost humorous, half ridiculous; and she was a woman, and shecould not put it away. Love, love, love! It would be her excuse and herforgiveness. She had appealed to Philip himself and in vain. Now shewould pretend to go on with her old relations. It was so little to do, and the effects were so certain. In jealousy and in terror Philip wouldstep out of himself and claim her. 

She had craft--all hungry things have craft. She had inklings ofambition, a certain love of luxury, and desire to be a lady. Toget Philip was to get everything. Love would be satisfied, ambitionfulfilled, the aims of refinement reached. Why not risk the great stake?

Nancy came to tidy the room, and Kate said, "Where's Pete all this time, I wonder?"

"Sitting in the fire-seat this half-hour, " said Nancy. "I don't know inthe world what's come over the man. He's rocking and moaning there likea cow licking a dead calf. "

"Would he like to come up, think you?"

"Don't ask the man twice if you want him to say no, " said Nancy. 

Blushing and stammering, and trying to straighten his black curls, Petecame at Nancy's call. 

Kate had few qualms. The wound she had received from Philip had left herconscienceless towards Pete. Yet she turned her head a little sidewaysas she welcomed him. 

"Are you better, then, Kirry?" said Pete timidly. 

"I'm nearly as well as ever, " she answered. 

"You are, though?" said Pete. "Then you'll be down soon, it's like, eh?"

"I hope so, Pete--quite soon. "

"And fit for anything, now--yes?"

"Oh, yes, fit for anything. "

Pete laughed from his heart like a boy. "I'll take a slieu round toBallure and tell Philip immadiently. "

"Philip?" said Kate, with a look of inquiry. 

"He was saying this morning you wouldn't be equal to it, Kirry. "

"Equal to what, Pete?"

"Getting--going--having--that's to say--well, you know, putting a sighton the parson himself one of these days, that's the fact. " And, to coverhis confusion, Pete laughed till the scraas of the roof began to snip. 

There was a moment's pause, and then Kate said, with a cough and astammer and her head aside, "Is that so _very_ tiring, Pete?"

Pete leapt from his chair and laughed again like a man demented. "D'yesay so, Kitty? The word then, darling--the word in my ear--as soft assoft----"

He was leaning over the bed, but Kate drew away from him, and Nancypulled him back, saying, "Get off with you, you goosey gander! What forshould you bother a poor girl to know if sugar's sweet, and if she'swilling to change a sweetheart for a husband?"

It was done. One act--nay, half an act; a word--nay, no word at all, butonly silence. The daring venture was afoot. 

Grannie came up with Kate's dinner that day, kissed her on both cheeks, felt them hot, wagged her head wisely, and whispered, "I know--youneedn't tell _me!_"

XIV. 

The last hymn was sung, Cæsar came home from chapel, changed backfrom his best to his work-day clothes, and then there was talking andlaughing in the kitchen amid the jingling of plates and the vigorousrattling of knives and forks. 

"Phil must be my best man, " said Pete. "He'll be back to Douglas now, but I'll get you to write me a line, Cæsar, and ask him. "

"Do you hold with long engagements, Pete?" said Grannie. 

"A week, " said Pete, with the air of a judge; "not much less anyway--notof a rule, you know. "

"You goose, " cried Nancy, "it must be three Sundays for the banns. "

"Then John the Clerk shall get them going this evening, " said Pete. "Nancy had the pull of me there, Grannie. Not being in the habit ofgetting married, I clane forgot about the banns. "

John the Clerk came in the afternoon, and there was some lustydisputation. 

"We must have bridesmaids and wedding-cakes, Pete--it's only proper, "said Nancy. 

"Aw, yes, and tobacco and rum, and everything respectable, " said Pete. 

"And the parson--mind it's the parson now, " said Grannie; "none of theirnasty high-bailiffs. I don't know in the world how a dacent woman canrest in her bed----"

"Aw, the parson, of coorse--and the parson's wife, maybe, " said Pete. 

"I think I can manage it for you for to-morrow fortnight, " said Johnthe Clerk impressively, and there was some clapping of hands, quicklysuppressed by Cæsar, with mutterings of--

"Popery! clane Popery, sir! Can't a person commit matrimony without aparson bothering a man?"

Then Cæsar squared his elbows across the table and wrote the letter toPhilip. Pete never stood sponsor for anything so pious. 

"Respected and Honoured Sir, --I write first to thee that it hath beenborne in on my mind (strong to believe the Lord hath spoken) to marry onKatherine Cregeen, only beloved daughter of Cæsar Cregeen, a respectableman and a local preacher, in whose house I tarry, being free to use allhis means of grace. Wedding to-morrow fortnight at Kirk Christ, Lezayre, eleven o'clock forenoon, and the Lord make it profitable tomy soul. --With love and-reverence, thy servant, and I trust the Lord's, Peter Quilliam. "

Having written this, Cæsar read it aloud with proper elevation of pitch. Grannie wiped her eyes, and Pete said, "Indited beautiful, sir--only youhaven't asked him. "

"My pen's getting crosslegs, " said Cæsar, "but that'll do for an N. B. "

"N. B. --Will you come for my best man?"

Then there was more talk and more laughter. "You're a lucky fellow, Pete, " said Pete himself. "My sailor, you are, though. She's as sweetas clover with the bumbees humming over it, and as warm as a gorse bushwhen the summer's gone. "

And then, affection being infectious beyond all maladies known tomortals, Nancy Joe was heard to say, "I believe in my heart I must behaving a man myself before long, or I'll be losing the notion. "

"D'ye hear that, boys?" shouted Pete. "Don't all spake at once. "

"Too late--I've lost it, " said Nancy, and there was yet more laughter. 

To put an end to this frivolity, Cæsar raised a hymn, and they sang ittogether with cheerful voices. Then Cæsar prayed appropriately, John theClerk improvised responses, and Pete went out and sat on the bottomstep in the lobby and smoked up the stairs, so that Kate in the bedroomshould not feel too lonely. 

XV. 

Meanwhile Kate, overwhelmed with shame, humiliation, self-reproach, horror of herself, and dread of everything, lay with cheeks ablaze andher head buried in the bedclothes. She had no longer any need to pretendto be sick; she was now sick in reality. Fate had threatened her. Shehad challenged it. They were gambling together. The stake was her love, her life, her doom. 

By the next day she had worked herself into a nervous fever. Dr. Mylechreest came to see her, unbidden of the family. He was one of thosetall, bashful men who, in their eagerness to be gone, seem always tohave urgent business somewhere else. After a single glance at her anda few muttered syllables, he went off hurriedly, as if some one werewaiting for him round the corner. But on going downstairs he met Cæsar, who asked him how he found her. 

"Feverish, very; keep her in bed, " he answered. "As for this marriage, it must be put off. She's exciting herself, and I won't answer forthe consequences. The thing has fallen too suddenly. To tell you thetruth--this way, Mr. Cregeen--I am afraid of a malady of the brain. "

"Tut, tut, doctor, " said Cæsar. 

"Very well, if you know better. Good-day! But let the wedding wait. _Traa dy liooar_--time enough, Mr. Cregeen. A right good Manx maxim foronce. Put it off--put it off!"

"It's not my putting off, doctor. What can you do with a man that'swanting to be married? You can't bridle a horse with pincers. "

But when the doctor was gone, Cæsar said to Grannie, "Cut out thebridesmaids and the wedding-cakes and the fiddles and the foolery, andlet the girl be married immadiently. "

"Dear heart alive, father, what's all the hurry?" said Grannie. 

"And Lord bless my soul, what's all the fuss?" said Cæsar. "Firstone objecting this, then another objecting that, as if everybody wasintarmined to stop the thing. It's going on, I'm telling you; d'ye hearme? There's many a slip--but no matter. What's written with the pencan't be cut out with the axe, so lave it alone, the lot of you. "

Kate was in an ecstasy of exultation. The doctor had been sent byPhilip. It was Philip who was trying to stop the marriage. He wouldnever be able to bear it; he would claim her soon. It might be to-day, it might be to-morrow, it might be the next day. The odds were with her. Fate was being worsted. Thus she clung to her blind faith that Philipwould intervene. 

That was Monday, and on Tuesday morning Philip came again. He was veryquiet, but the heart has ears, and Kate heard him. Pete's letter hadreached him, and she could see his white face. After a few words ofcommonplace conversation, he drew Pete out of the house. What had he gotto say? Was he thinking that Pete must be stopped at all hazards? Washe about to make a clean breast of it? Was he going to tell all?Impossible! He could not; he dared not; it was _her_ secret. 

Pete came back to the house alone, looking serious and even sad. Kateheard him exchange a few words with her father as they passed throughthe lobby to the kitchen. Cæsar was saying--

"Stand on your own head, sir, that's my advice to you. "

In the intensity of her torment she could not rest. She sent for Pete. 

"What about Philip?" she said. "Is he coming? What has he been tellingyou?"

"Bad news, Kate--very bad, " said Pete. 

There was a fearful silence for a moment. It was like the awful hushat the instant when the tide turns, and you feel as if something hashappened to the world. Then Kate hardened her face and said, "What isit?"

"He's ill, and wants to go away in a week. He can't come to thewedding, '' said Pete. 

"Is that all?" said Kate. Her heart leapt for joy. She could not helpit--she laughed. She saw through Philip's excuse. It was only hissubterfuge--he thought Pete would not marry without him. 

"Aw, but you never seen the like, though, Kirry, " said Pete; "he wasthat white and wake and narvous. Work and worry, that's the size of it. There's nothing done in this world without paying the price of it, andthat's as true as gospel. 'The sea's calling me, Pete, ' says he, andthen he laughed, but it was the same as if a ghost itself was grinning. "

In the selfishness of her enfeebled spirit, Kate still rejoiced. Philipwas suffering. It was another assurance that he would come to herrelief. 

"When does he go?" she asked. 

"On Tuesday, " answered Pete. 

"Isn't there a way of getting a Bishop's license to marry in a week?"said Kate. 

"But will you, though?" said Pete, with a shout of joy. 

"Ask Philip first. No use changing if Philip can't come. "

"He shall--he must. I won't take No. "

"You may kiss me now, " said Kate, and Pete plucked her up into his armsand kissed her. 

She was heart-dead to him yet, from the wound that Philip had dealt her, but at the touch of his lips a feeling of horror seemed to cramp all herlimbs. With a shudder she crept down in the bed and hid her face, hatingherself, loathing herself, wishing herself dead. 

He stood a moment by her side, crying like a big boy in his greathappiness. "I don't know in the world what she sees in me to be so fondof me, but that's the way with the women always, God bless them!"

She did not lift her face, and he stepped quietly to the door. Half-waythrough he turned about and raised one arm over his head. "God's restand God's peace be with you, and may the man that gets you keep a claneheart and a clane hand, and be fit for the good woman he's won for hiswife. "

At the next minute he went tearing down the stairs, and the kitchen rangwith his laughter. 

XVI. 

Fate scored one. Kate had been telling herself that Philip was tired ofher, that he did not love her any longer, that having taken all he couldtake he desired to be done with her, that he was trying to forget her, and that she was a drag upon him, when suddenly she remembered thetholthan, and bethought herself for the first time of a possiblecontingency. Why had she not thought of it before? Why had _he_ neverthought of it? _If_ it should come to pass! The prospect did not appalher; it did not overwhelm her with confusion or oppress her with shame;it did not threaten to fall like a thunderbolt; the thought of it camedown like an angel's whisper. 

She was not afraid. It was only an idea, only a possibility, only adream of consequences, but at one bound it brought her so much nearer toPhilip. It gave her a right to him. How dare he make her suffer so? Shewould not permit him to leave her. He was her husband, and he mustcling to her, come what would. Across the void that had divided thema mysterious power drew them together. She was he, and he was she, andthey were one, for--who knows?--who could say?--perhaps Nature herselfhad willed it. 

Thus the first effect of the new thought upon Kate was frenziedexultation. She had only one thing to do now. She had only to goto Philip as Bathsheba went to David. True, she could not say whatBathsheba said. She had no certainty, but her case was no less strong. "Have you never thought of what may possibly occur?" This is what shewould say now to Philip. And Philip would say to her, "Dearest, I havenever thought of that. Where was my head that I never reflected?" Then, in spite of his plans, in spite of his pledge to Pete, in spite of theworld, in spite of himself--yea, in spite of his own soul if it stoodbetween them--he would cling to her; she was sure of it--she could swearto it--he could not resist. 

"He will believe whatever I tell him, " she thought, and she would say, "Come to me, Philip; I am frightened. " In the torture of her palpitatingheart she would have rejoiced at that moment if she could have been surethat she was in the position of what the world calls a shameful woman. With that for her claim she could see herself going to Philip andtelling him, her head on his breast, whispering sweetly the greatsecret--the wondrous news. And then the joy, the rapture, the long kissof love! "Mine, mine, mine! he is mine at last!"

That could not be quite so; she was not so happy as Bathsheba; she wasnot sure, but her right was the same for all that. Oh, it was joyful, itwas delicious!

The little cunning arts of her sex, the small deceits in which she haddisguised herself fell away from her now. She said to herself, "I willstop the nonsense about the marriage with Pete. " It was mean, it wasfoolish, it was miserable trifling, it was wicked, it was a wasteof life--above all, it was doing a great, great wrong to her love ofPhilip! How could she ever have thought of it?

Next morning she was up and was dressing when Grannie came into the roomwith a cup of tea. "I feel so much better, " she said "that I think I'llgo to Douglas by the coach today, mother. "

"Do, bogh, " said Grannie cheerfully, "and Pete shall go with you. "

"Oh, no; I must be quite alone, mother. "

"Aw, aw! A lil errand, maybe! Shopping is it? Presents, eh? Take yourtay, then. " And Grannie rolled the blind, saying, "A beautiful morningyou'll have for it, too. I can see the spire as plain as plain. " Then, turning about, "Did you hear the bells this morning, Kitty?"

"Why, what bells, mammy?" said Kate, through a mouthful of bread andbutter. 

"The bells for Christian Killip. Her old sweetheart took her to churchat last. He wouldn't get rest at your father till he did--and her babytwo years for Christmas. But what d'ye think, now? Robbie left her atthe church door, and he's off by the Ramsey packet for England. Aw, dear, he did, though. 'You can make me marry her, ' said he, 'but youcan't make me live with her, ' he said, and he was away down the roadlike the dust. "

"I don't think I'll go to Douglas to-day, mother, " said Kate in a brokenvoice. "I'm not so very well, after all. "

"Aw, the bogh!" said Grannie. "Making too sure of herself, was she? It'sthe way with them all when they're mending. "

With cheerful protestations Grannie helped her back to bed, and thenwent off with an anxious face to tell Cæsar that she was more ill thanever. 

She was ill indeed; but her worst illness was of the heart. "If I go tohim and tell him, " she thought, "he will marry me--yes. No fear that hewill leave me at the church door or elsewhere. He will stay with me. Wewill be man and wife to the last. The world will know nothing. But _I_will know. As long as I live I will remember that he only sacrificedhimself to repair a fault That shall never be--never, never!"

Cæsar came up in great alarm. He seemed to be living in hourly dreadthat some obstacle would arise at the last moment to stop the marriage. "Chut, woman!" he said play-. Fully. "Have a good heart, Kitty. Thesun's not going down on you yet at all. "

That night there were loud voices from the bar-room. The talk was of themarriage which had taken place in the morning, and of its strange andpainful sequel. John the Clerk was saying, "But you'd be hearing of theby-child, it's like?"

"Never a word, " said somebody. 

"Not heard of it, though? Fetching the child to the wedding to have thebad name taken off it--no? They were standing the lil bogh---it's onlythree--two is it, Grannie, only two?--well, they were standing the lilthing under its mother's perricut while the sarvice was saying. "

"You don't say!"

"Aw, truth enough, sir! It's the ould Manx way of legitimating. Theparsons are knowing nothing of it, but I've seen it times. "

"John's right, " said Mr. Jelly; "and I can tell you more--it was just_that_ the man went to church for. "

"Wouldn't trust, " said John the Clerk. "The woman wasn't getting much ofa husband out of it anyway. "

"No, " said Pete--he had not spoken before--"but the child was gettingthe name of its father, though. "

"That's not mountains of thick porridge, sir, " said somebody. "Bobbie'sgone. What's the good of a father if he's doing nothing to bring youup?"

"Ask your son if you've got any of the sort, " said Pete; "some of youhave. Ask me. I know middling well what it is to go through the worldwithout a father's name to my back. If your lad is like myself, he'sknowing it early and he's knowing it late. He's knowing it when he'ssaying his bits of prayers atop of the bed in the gable loft: 'God blessmother--and grandmother, ' maybe--there's never no 'father' in his littletexes. And he's knowing it when he's growing up to a lump of a lad andgoing for a trade, and the beast of life is getting the grip of him. Tento one he comes to be a waistrel then, and, if it's a girl instead, ahundred to nothing she turns out a--well, worse. Only a notion, isit? Just a parzon's lie, eh? Having your father's name is nothing--no?That's what the man says. But ask the _child_, and shut your mouth for afool. "

There was a hush and a hum after that, and Kate, who had reached fromthe bed to open the door, clutched it with a feverish grasp. 

"But Christian Killip is nothing but a trollop, anyway, sir, " saidCæsar. 

"Every cat is black in the night, father--the girl's in trouble, " saidPete. "No, no! If I'd done wrong by a woman, and she was having a childby me, I'd marry her if she'd take me, though I'd come to hate her likesin itself. "

Grannie in the kitchen was wiping her eyes at these brave words, butKate in the bedroom was tossing in a delirium of wrath. "Never, never, never!" she thought. 

Oh, yes, Philip would marry her if she imposed herself upon him, if shehinted at a possible contingency. He, too, was a brave man; he also hada lofty soul--he would not shrink. But no, not for the wealth of worlds. 

Philip loved her, and his love alone should bring him to her side. Noother compulsion should be put upon him, neither the thought of herpossible future position, nor of the consequences to another. It was theonly justice, the only safety, the only happiness now or in the time tocome. 

"He shall marry me for _my_ sake, " she thought, "for my own sake--my ownsake only. "

Thus in the wild disorder of her soul--the tempest of conflictingpassions--her pride barred up the one great way. 

XVII. 

There was no help for it after all--she must go on as she had begun, with the old scheme, the old chance, the old gambling hazard. Heart-sickand ashamed, waiting for Philip, and listening to every step, she kepther room two days longer. Then Cæsar came and rallied her. 

"Gough bless me, but nobody will credit it, " he said. "The marriagefor Monday, and the bride in bed a Wednesday. People will say it isn'tcoming off at all. "

This alarmed her. It partly explained why Philip did not come. If hethought there was no danger of the marriage, he would be in no hurry tointervene. Next day (Thursday) she struggled up and dressed in a lightwrapper, feeling weak and nervous, and looking pale and white likeapple-blossom nipped by frost. Pete would have carried her downstairs, but she would not have it. They established her among a pile of cushionsbefore a fire in the parlour, with its bowl of sea-birds' eggs that hadthe faint, unfamiliar smell--its tables of old china that shook and rangslightly with every step and sound. The kitchen was covered with thelitter of dressmakers preparing for the wedding. There were bodicesto try on, and decisions to give on points of style. Kate agreed toeverything. In a weak and toneless voice she kept on telling them to doas they thought hest. Only when she heard that Pete was to pay did sheassert her will, and that was to limit the dresses to one. 

"Sakes alive now, Kirry, " cried Nancy, "that's what I call ruining agood husband--the man was willing to buy frocks for a boarding-school. "

Pete came, sat on a stool at her feet, and told stories. They werefunny stories of his life abroad, and now and again there came burstsof laughter from the kitchen, where they were straining their necks tocatch his words through the doors, which they kept ajar. But Kate hardlylistened. She showed signs of impatience sometimes, and made quickglances around when the door opened, as if expecting somebody. Onrecovering herself at these moments, she found Pete looking up at herwith the big, serious, moist eyes of a dog. 

He began to tell of the house he had taken, to excuse himself for notconsulting her, and to describe the progress of the furnishing. 

"I've put it all in the hands of Cannell & Quayle, Kitty, " he said, "andthey're doing it beautiful. Marble slabs, bless you, like a butcher'scounter; carpets as soft as daisies, and looking-glasses as tall as aman. "

Kate had not heard him. She was trying to remember all she knew of thecourts of the island--where they were held, and on what days. 

"Have you seen Philip lately?" she asked. 

"Not since Monday, " said Pete. "He's in Douglas, working like mad to behere on Monday, God bless him!"

"What did he say when he heard we had changed the day?"

"Wanted to get out of it first. 'I'm sailing on Tuesday, ' said he. "

"Did you tell him that _I_ proposed it?"

"Trust me for not forgetting that at all. 'Aw, then, ' says he, 'there'sno choice left, ' he says. "

Kate's pale face became paler, the dark circles about her eyes grew yetmore dark. "I think I'll go back to bed, mother, " she said in the sametoneless voice. 

Pete helped her to the foot of the stairs. The big, moist eyeswere looking at her constantly. She found it hard to keep an equalcountenance. 

"But will you be fit for it, darling?" said Pete. 

"Why, of course she'll be fit, sir, " said Cæsar. "What girl is ever morethan middling the week before she's married?"

Next day she persuaded her father to take her to Douglas. She had littleerrands there that could not be done in Ramsey. The morning was fine butcold. Pete helped her up in the gig, and they drove away. If only shecould see Philip, if only Philip could see her, he would know bythe look of her face that the marriage was not of her making--thatcompulsion of some sort was being put on her. She spent four hoursgoing from shop to shop, lingering in the streets, but seeing nothingof Philip. Her step was slow and weary, her features were pinched andstarved, but Cæsar could scarcely get her out of the town. At length thedaylight began to fail, and then she yielded to his importunities. 

"How short the days are now, " she said with a sigh, as they ran into thecountry. 

"Yes, they are a cock's stride shorter in September, " said Cæsar; "butwhen a woman once gets shopping, Midsummer day itself won't do--she'swanting the land of the midnight sun. "

Pete lifted her out of the gig in darkness at the door of the "Fairy, "and, his great arms being about her, he carried her into the house andset her down in the fire-seat. She would have struggled to her feet ifshe had been able; she felt something like repulsion at his touch; buthe looked at her with the mute eloquence of love, and she was ashamed. 

The house was full of gossips that night. They talked of the marriagecustoms of old times. One described the "pay-weddings, " where the hatwent round, and every guest gave something towards the cost of thebreakfast and the expenses of beginning housekeeping--rude forefatherof the practice of the modern wedding present. Another pictured theirregular marriages made in public-houses in the days when the islandhad three breweries and thirty drinking shops to every thousand of itsinhabitants. The publican laid two sticks crosswise on the floor, andsaid to the bride and bridegroom--

"Hop over the sticks and lie crossed on the floor, And you're man andwife for nevermore. "

There was some laughter at this, but Kate sat in the fire-seat andsipped her tea in silence, and Pete said quietly, "Nothing to laugh at, though. I remember a girl over Foxal way that was married to a man likethat, and then he went off to Kinsale, and got kept for the herringriots--d'ye mind them? She was a strapping girl, though, and when theman was gone the boys came bothering her, first one and then another, and good ones among them too. And honour bright for all, they were fortaking her to the parzon about right But no! Did they think she was forcommitting beggamy? She was married to one man, and wasn't that enoughfor a dacent girl anyway. And so she wouldn't and she didn't, and lastof all her own boy came back, and they lived together man and wife, andwhat for shouldn't they?"

This question from the man who was on the point of going to church wasreceived with shouts of laughter, through which the voice of Grannierose in affectionate remonstrance, saying, "Aw, Pete, it's ter'ble tohear you, bogh. "

"What's there ter'ble about that, Grannie?" said Pete. "Isn't it theAlmighty and not the parzon that makes the marriage?"

"Aw, boy veen, boy veen, " cried Grannie, "you was used to be a good man, but you have fell off very bad. "

Kate was in a fever of eagerness. She wanted to open her heart to Pete, to beg him to spare her, to tell him that it was impossible that theyshould ever marry. Pete would see that Philip was her husband by everytrue law, human and divine. In this mood she lived through much of thefollowing day, Friday, tossing and turning in bed, for the exhaustion ofthe day in Douglas had confined her to her room again. 

In the evening she came downstairs, and was established in the fire-seatas before. There were four or five old women in the kitchen spinningyarn for a set of blankets which Grannie intended for a wedding present. "When the day's work was nearly done, two or three old men, the oldhusbands of the old women, came to carry their wheels home again. Then, as the wheels whirred for the last of the twist, Pete set the old cronesto tell stories of old times. 

"Tell us of the days when you were young, Anne, " said Pete to an ancientdame of eighty. Her husband of eighty-four sat sucking his pipe by herside. 

"Well, " said old Anne, stretching her arms to the yarn, "I was as neargoing foreign, same as yourself, sir, just as near, now, as makes nomatter. It was the very day I married this man, and his brother wasmaking a start for Austrillya. Jemmy was my ould sweetheart, only I hadgiven him up because he was always stealing my pocket-handkerchers. Buthe came that morning and tapped at my window, and 'Will you come, Anne?'says he, and I whipped on my perricut and stole out and down to the quaywith him. But my heart was losing me when I saw the white horses on thewater, and home I came and went to church with this one instead. "

While old Anne told her story her old husband opened his mouth wider andwider, until the pipe-shank dropped out of his toothless gums on to hiswaistcoat. Then he stretched his left arm and brought down his clenchedhand with a bang on to her shoulder. 

"And have you been living with me better than sixty years, " said he, "and never telling me that before?"

Pete tried to pacify his ancient jealousy, but it was not to beappeased, and he shouldered the wheel and hobbled off, saying, "And Isent out two pound five to put a stone on the man's grave!"

There was loud laughter when the old couple were gone, but Pete said, nevertheless, "A sacret's a sacret, though, and the ould lady had noright to tell it. It was the dead man's sacret too, and she's fouled theould man's memory. If a person's done wrong, the best thing he can donext is to say darned little about it. "

Kate rose and went off to bed. Another door had been barred to her, andshe felt sick and faint. 

XVIII. 

The next day was Saturday. Kate remembered that Philip came to Ballureon Saturdays. She felt sure that he would come to Sulby also. Let himonly set eyes on her, and he would divine the trouble that had taken thecolour out of her cheeks. Then he would speak to Pete and to her father;he would deliver her; he would take everything upon himself. Thus allday long, like a white-eyed gambler who has staked his last, she waitedand listened and watched. At breakfast she said to herself, "He willcome this morning. " At dinner, "He will come this evening. " At supper, "He will come tonight. "

But Philip did not come, and she grew hysterical as well as restless. She watched the clock; the minutes passed with feet of lead, but thehours with wings of fire. She was now like a criminal looking for areprieve. Every time the clock warned to strike, she felt one hournearer her doom. 

The strain was wearing her out. She reproached Philip for leaving her tothis cruel uncertainty, and she suffered the pangs of one who triesat the same time to love and to hate. Then she reproached herself withaltering the date of the marriage, and excused Philip on the grounds ofher haste. She felt like a witch who was burning by her own spell. Hopewas failing her, and Will was breaking down as well. Nevertheless, shedetermined that the wedding should be postponed. 

That was on Saturday night. On Sunday morning she had gone one stepfarther. The last pitiful shred of expectation that Philip wouldintervene seemed then to be lost, and she had resolved that, comewhat would, she should not marry at all. No need to appeal to Pete; nonecessity to betray the secret of Philip. All she had to do was tosay she would not go on with the wedding, and no power on earth shouldcompel her. 

With this determination, and a feeling of immense relief, she wentdownstairs. Cæsar was coming in from the preaching-room, and Pete fromthe new house at Ramsey. They sat down to dinner. After dinner she wouldspeak out. Cæsar sharpened the carving-knife on the steel, and said, "We've taken the girl Christian Killip back to communion to-day. "

"Poor thing, " said Grannie, "pity she was ever put out of it, though. "

"Maybe so, --maybe no, " said Cæsar. "Necessary anyway; one scabby sheepinfects the flock. "

"And has marriage daubed grace on the poor sheep's sore then, Cæsar?"said Pete. 

"She's Mistress Robbie Teare and a dacent woman, sir, " said Cæsar, digging into the beef, "and that's all the truck a Christian church hasgot with it. "

Kate did not eat her dinner that day, and neither did she speak out asshe had intended. A supernatural power seemed to have come down at thelast moment and barred up the one remaining pathway of escape. She wasin the track of the storm. The tempest was ready to fall on her. Wherecould she fly for shelter?

What her father had said of the girl had revealed her life to her in thelight of her relation to Philip. The thought of the possible contingencywhich she had foreseen with so much joy, as so much power, had awakenedthe consciousness of her moral position. She was a fallen woman! Whatelse was she? And if the contingency befell, what would become of her?In the intensity of her father's pietistic views the very shadow ofshame would overwhelm his household, overthrow his sect, and uproothis religious pretensions. Kate trembled at the possibility of such adisaster coming through her. She saw herself being driven from house andhome. Where could she fly? And though she fled away, would she not stillbe the cause of sorrow and disgrace to all whom she left behind--hermother, her father, Pete, everybody?

If she could only tear out the past, at least she could stop thismarriage. Or if she had been a man she could stop it, for a man may sinand still look to the future with a firm face. But she was a woman, anda woman's acts may be her own, but their consequences are beyond her. Oh, the misery of being a woman! She asked herself what she could do, and there was no answer. She could not break the web of circumstances. Her situation might be false, it might be dishonourable, but there wasno escape from it. There was no gleam of hope anywhere. 

Late that night--Sunday night--they were sitting together in thekitchen, Kate in the fire-seat as usual, Pete on the stool by the turfcloset, smoking up the chimney, Cæsar reading aloud, Grannie listening, and Nancy cooking the supper, when the porch door burst open andsomebody entered. Kate rose to her feet with a startled cry of joy, looked round eagerly, and then sat down again covered with confusion. 

It was the girl Christian Killip, a pale, weak, frightened creature, with the mouth and eyes of a hare. 

"Is Mr. Quilliam here?" she asked. 

"Here's the man himself, Christian, " said Grannie. "What do you wantwith him?"

"Oh, God bless you, sir, " said the girl to Pete, "God bless you for everand ever. "

Then turning back to Grannie, she explained in woman's fashion, withmany words, that somebody unknown had sent her twenty pounds, for thechild, by post, the day before, and she had only now guessed who it mustbe when John the Clerk had told her what Pete had said a week before. 

Pete grunted and glimed, smoked up the chimney, and said, "That'll do, ma'am, that'll do. Don't believe all you hear. John says more than hisAmens, anyway. "

"I'm axing your pardon, miss, " said the girl to Kate, "but I couldn'thelp coming--I couldn't really--no, I couldn't, " and then she began tocry. 

"Where's that child?" said Pete, heaving up to his feet with a ferociouslook. "What! you mane to say you've left the lil thing alone, asleep? Goback to it then immajent. Good night!"

"Good night, sir, and God bless you, and when you're married to-morrow, God bless your wife as well!"

"That'll do--that'll do, " said Pete, backing her to the porch. 

"You desarve a good woman, sir, and may the Lord be good to you both. "

"Tut! tut!" said Pete, and he tut-tutted her out of the house. 

She smoothed her baby's hair more tenderly than ever that night, andkissed it again and again. 

Kate could scarcely breathe, she could barely see. Her pride and herwill had broken down utterly. This greathearted man loved her. He wouldlay down his life if need be to save her. To morrow he would marry her. Here, then, was her rock of refuge--this strong man by her side. 

She could struggle against fate no longer. It's invisible hand waspushing her on. It's blind power was dragging her. If Philip would notcome to claim her she must marry Pete. 

And Pete? She meant no harm to Pete. She had not yet thought of thingsfrom Pete's point of view. He was like the camel-bag in the desert tothe terrified wayfarer when the sand-cloud breaks oyer him. He flies toit. It shelters him. But what of the camel itself, with its head in thestorm? Until the storm is over he does not think of that. 

XIX. 

Meantime Philip himself was in the throes of his own agony. At the newsof Kate's illness he was overwhelmed with remorse, and when he inquiredif she had been delirious, he was oppressed with a sense of meannessnever felt before. At his meeting with Pete he realised for the firsttime to what depths his duplicity had degraded him. He had pridedhimself on being a man of honour, and he was suddenly thrown out of thepaths in which he could walk honourably. 

When the first shock of Kate's disaster was over, he remembered theinterview with the Governor. The Deemstership burnt in his mind witha growing fever of desire, but he did not apply for it. He did noteven mention it to Auntie Nan. She heard of his prospects from PeterChristian Balla-whaine, who first set foot in her house on this errandof congratulation. The sweet old soul was wildly excited. All the hopesof her life were about to be realised, the visions and the dreams werecoming true. Philip was going to regain what his father had lost. Had hemade his application yet? No? He would, though; it was his duty. 

But Philip could not apply for the Deemstership. To sit down in coldblood and write to the Home Secretary while Kate was lying sick in bedwould be too much like asking the devil's wages for sacrificing her. Then came Pete with his talk of the wedding. That did not really alarmhim. It was only the last revolution of the old wheel that had been setspinning before Pete went away. Kate would not consent. They had takenher consent for granted. He felt easy, calm, and secure. 

Next came his old master, the college friend of his father, now promotedto the position of Clerk of the Polls. He was proud of his pupil, andhad learnt that Philip was first favourite with the Governor. 

"I always knew it, " he said. "I did, ma'am, I did. The first time I seteyes on him, thinks I, 'Here comes the makings of the best lawyer in theisland, ' and by ------ he's not going to disappoint me either. "

The good fellow was a noisy, hearty, robustious creature, a bachelor, and when talking of the late Deemster, he said women were usually thechief obstacles in a man's career. Then he begged Auntie Nan's pardon, but the old lady showed no anger. She agreed that it had been so in somecases. Young men should be careful what stumbling-blocks they set up inthe way of their own progress. 

Philip listened in silence, and was conscious, through all the unselfishcounselling, of a certain cynical bitterness. Still he did not makeapplication for the Deemstership. Then came Cæsar's letter announcingthe marriage, and even fixing a date for it. This threw him into a fitof towering indignation. He was certain of undue pressure. They wereforcing the girl. It was his duty to stop the marriage. But how? Therewas one clear course, but that course he could not take. He could not goback on his settled determination that he must not, should not marry thegirl himself. Only one thing was left--to rely on Kate. She would neverconsent. Not being able to marry _him_, she would marry no man. Shewould do as he was doing--she would suffer and stand alone. 

By this time Philip's love, which, in spite of himself, had grown coolsince the Melliah, and in his fierce battle with his worldly aims, suddenly awakened to fresh violence at the approach of another man. Buthis ambition fought with his love, and he began to ask himself if itmade, any difference after all in this matter of Kate whether he tookthe Deemstership or left it. Kate was recovering; he had nothing toreproach himself with, and it would be folly to sacrifice the ambitionof a lifetime to the love of a woman who could never be his, a woman hecould never marry. At that he wrote his letter to the Home Secretary. It was a brilliant letter of its kind, simple, natural, strong, andjudicious. He had a calm assurance that nothing so good would leave theisland, yet he could not bring himself to post it. Some quiverings ofthe old tenderness came back as he held it in his hand, some visions ofKate, with her twitching lips, her passionate eyes, some whisperings oftheir smothered love. 

Then came Pete again with the decisive blow. Kate _had_ consented. Therewas no longer any room for doubt. His former indignation seemed almostcomic, his confidence absurd. Kate was willing to marry Pete, and afterall, what right had he to blame her? What right had he to stop themarriage? He had wronged the girl enough already. A good man came andoffered her his love. She was going to take it. How should he dare tostop her from marrying another, being unable to marry her himself?

That night he posted his letter to the Home Secretary, and calmed thegnawings of his love with dreams of ambition. He would regain the placeof his father; he would revive the traditions of his grandfather; theChristians should resume their ancient standing in the Isle of Man; thelast of their race should be a strong man and a just one. No, he wouldnever marry; he would live alone, a quiet life, a peaceful one, slightlytinged with melancholy, yet not altogether unhappy, not without cheer. 

Under all other emotions, strengthening and supporting him, was a secretbitterness towards Kate--a certain contempt of her fickleness, herlightness, her shallow love, her readiness to be off with the old loveand on with the new. There was a sort of pride in his own higher type ofdevotion, his sterner passion. Pete invited him to the wedding, but hewould not go, he would invent some excuse. 

Then came the change of the day to suit his supposed convenience, andalso Kate's own invitation. Very well, be it so. Kate was defying him. Her invitation was a challenge. He would take it; he would go to thewedding. And if their eyes should meet, he knew whose eyes must fall. 

XX. 

Early next day the sleeping morning was awakened by the sound of a horn. It began somewhere in the village, wandered down the glen, crossed thebridge, plodded over the fields, and finally coiled round the house ofthe bride in thickening groans of discord. This restless spirit in thegrey light was meant as herald of the approaching wedding. It came fromthe husky lungs of Mr. Jonaique Jelly. 

Before daylight "The Manx Fairy" was already astir. Somewhere in theearly reaches of the dawn the house had its last dusting down at thehands of Nancy Joe. Then Grannie finished, on hearth and griddle, thebaking of her cakes. After that, some of the neighbours came and carriedoff to their own fires the beef, mutton, chickens, and ducks intendedfor the day's dinner. It was woman's work that was to the fore, and allidle men were hustled out of the way. 

Towards nine o'clock breakfast was swallowed standing. Then everybodybegan to think of dressing. In this matter the men had to be finishedoff before the women could begin. Already they were heard bellowing forhelp from unseen regions upstairs. Grannie took Cæsar in hand. Pete wasin charge of Nancy Joe. 

It was found at the last moment that Pete had forgotten to providehimself with a white shirt. He had nothing to be married in except theflannel one in which he came home from Africa. This would never do. Itwasn't proper, it wasn't respectable. There was no choice but to borrowa shirt of Cæsar's. Cæsar's shirt was of ancient pattern, and Pete wasshy of taking it. "Take it, or you'll have none, " said Nancy, and shepushed him back into his room. When he emerged from it he walked witha stiff neck down the stairs in a collar that reached to his ears ateither side, and stood out at his cheeks like the wings of a white bat, with two long sharp points on the level of his eyes, which he seemed tobe watching warily to avoid the stab of their ironed starch. At thesame moment Cæsar appeared in duck trousers, a flowered waistcoat, aswallow-tail coat, and a tall hat of rough black beaver. 

The kitchen was full of men and women by this time, and groups of youngfellows were gathered on the road outside, some with horses, saddled andbridled for the bride's race home after the ceremony; others with gunsready loaded for firing as the procession appeared; and others againwith lines of print handkerchiefs, which, as substitutes for flags, theywere hanging from tree to tree. 

At every moment the crowd became greater outside, and the company insidemore dense. John the Clerk called on his way to church, and whisperedPete that everything was ready, and they were going to sing a beautifulpsalm. 

"It isn't many a man's wedding I would be taking the same trouble with, "said John. "When you are coming down the alley give a sight up, sir, andyou'll see me. "

"He's only a poor thing, " said Mr. Jelly in Pete's ear as John the Clerkwent off. "No more music in the man than my ould sow. Did you hear thehorn this morning, sir? Never got up so early for a wedding before. I'llbe giving you 'the Black and the Grey' going into the church. "

Grannie came down in a gigantic bonnet like a half-moon, with her whitecap visible beneath it; and Nancy Joe appeared behind her, be-ribbonedout of all recognition, and taller by many inches for the turret offeathers and flowers on the head that was usually bare. 

Then the church bells began to peal, and Cæsar made a prolonged A--hm!and said in a large way, "Has the carriage arrived?"

"It's coming over by the bridge now, " said somebody at the door, and atthe next moment a covered wagonette drew up at the porch. 

"All ready?" asked Cæsar. 

"Stop, sir, " said Pete, and then, turning to Nancy Joe, "Is it glad aman should be on his wedding-day, Nancy?"

"Why, of coorse, you goose. What else?" she answered. 

"Well, no man can be glad in a shirt like this, " said Pete; "I'm goingback to take it off. "

Two minutes afterwards he reappeared in his flannel one, under his suitof blue pilot, looking simple and natural, and a man every inch of him. 

"Now call the bride, " said Cæsar. 

XXI. 

Kate had been kept awake during the dark hours with a sound in her earsthat was like the measured ringing of far-off bells. When the daylightcame she slept a troubled sleep, and when she awoke she had a sense ofstupefaction, as if she had taken a drug, and was not yet recovered fromthe effects of it. Nancy came bouncing into her room and crying, "It'syour wedding-day, Kitty!" She answered by repeating mechanically, "It'syour wedding day, Kitty. "

There was an expression of serenity on her face; she even smiled alittle. A sort of vague gaiety came over her, such as comes to one whohas watched long in agony and suspense by the bed of a sick person andthe person is dead. Nancy drew the little window curtain aside, stoopeddown, and looked out and said, "'Happy the bride the sun shines on'they're saying, and look! the sun is shining. "

"Oh, but the sun is an old sly-boots, " she answered. 

They came up to dress her. She kept stumbling against things, and thenlaughing in a faint way. The dress was the new one, and when they hadput it on they stood back from her and shouted with delight. She took upthe little broken hand-glass to look at herself. Her great eyes sparkledpiteously. 

The church bells began to ring her wedding-peal. She had to listen hardto hear it. All sounds seemed to be very far away; everything looked along way off. She was living in a sort of dead white dawn of thought andfeeling. 

At last they came to say the coach was ready and everything was waitingfor the bride. She repeated their message like a machine, made a slowgesture, and followed them downstairs. When she got near to the bottom, she looked around on the faces below as if expecting to see somebody. Just then her father was saying, "Mr. Christian is to meet us at thechurch. "

She smiled faintly and answered the people's greetings in an indistincttone. There was some indulgent whispering at sight of her pale face. "Pale but genteel, " said some one, and then Nancy reached over and drewthe bride's veil down over her face. 

At the next minute she was outside the house, standing at the back ofthe wagonette. The coachman, with his white rosette, was holding thedoor open on one side, and her father was elevating her hand on theother. 

"Am I to go, then?" she asked in a helpless voice. 

"Well, what do _you_ think?" said Cæsar. "Shall the man slip off and getmarried to himself, think you?"

There was laughter among the people standing round, and she laughed alsoand stepped into the coach. Her mother followed her, crinkling in noisyold silk, and Nancy Joe came next, smelling of lavender and hair-oil. Then her father got in, and then Pete, with his great warm presence. 

A salute of six guns was fired straight up by the coach-windows. Thehorses pranced, Nancy screamed, and Grannie started, but Kate gave nosign. People were closing round the coach-door and shouting altogetheras at a fair. "Good luck to you, boy. Good luck! Good luck!" Pete wasanswering in a rolling voice that seemed to be lifting the low roof off, and at the same time flinging money out in handfuls as the horses movedaway. 

They were going slowly down the road. From somewhere in front camethe sound of a clarionet. It was playing "the Black and the Grey. "Immediately behind there was the tramp of people walking with an evenstep, and on either side the rustle of an irregular crowd. The morningwas warm and beautiful. Here and there the last of the golden cushagglistened on the hedges with the first of the autumn gorse. They passedtwo or three houses that had been made roofless by the recent storm, and once or twice they came on a fallen tree-trunk with its thin leavesyellowing on the fading grass. 

Kate was floating vaguely through these sights and sounds. It was alllike a dream to her--a waking dream in shadow-land. She knew where shewas and where she was going. Some glimmering of hope was left yet. She was half expecting a miracle of some sort. Philip would be at thechurch. Something supernatural would occur. 

They drew up sharply, the glass of the windows rattled, and the talkthat had been going on in the carriage ceased. "Here we are, " criedCæsar; there were voices outside, and then the others inside steppeddown. She saw a hand held out to her and knew whose it was before hereyes had risen to the face. Philip was there. He was helping her toalight. 

"Am I to get down too?" she asked in a helpless way. 

Cæsar said something that made the people laugh again, and then shesmiled like faded sunshine and took the hand of Philip. She held it amoment as if expecting him to say something, but he only raised his hat. His face was white as marble. He will speak yet, she thought. 

Over the gateway to the churchyard there was an arch of flowers andevergreens, with an inscription in coloured letters: "God bless thehappy pair. " The sloping path going down as to a dell was strewn withgilvers and slips of fuchsia. 

At the bottom stood the old church mantled in ivy, like a rock of thesea covered by green moss. 

Leaning on her father's arm she walked in at the porch. The church wasfull of people. As they passed under the gallery there was a twitteringas of birds. The Sunday-school girls were up there, looking down andtalking eagerly. Then the coughing and hemming ceased; there was a sortof deep inspiration; the church seemed to hold its breath for a moment. After that there were broken exclamations, and the coughing and hemmingbegan again. "How pale!"--"Not fit, poor thing. " Everybody was pityingher starved features. 

"Stand here, " said somebody in a soft voice. 

"Must I?" she said quite loudly. 

All at once she was aware that she was alone before the communion rail, with the parson--old ruddy-faced Parson Quiggin--in his white surplicefacing her. Some one came and stood beside her. It was Pete. She did notlook at him, but she felt his warm presence again, and was relieved. Itwas like shelter from the eyes around. After a moment she turned aboutPhilip was one step behind Pete. His head was bent. 

Then the service began. The voice of the parson muttered words in a lowvoice, but she did not listen. She found herself trying to spell out theManx text printed over the chancel arch: "Bannet T'eshyn Ta Cheet aynsEnnyn y Chearn" ("Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord"). 

Suddenly the words the parson was speaking leapt into meaning and madeher quiver. 

". . . . Is commended of Saint Paul to be honourable among all men, andtherefore not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly----"

She seemed to know that Philip's eyes were on her. They were on the backof her head, and the veil over her face began to shake. 

The voice of the parson was going on again--

"Therefore if any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully bejoined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold hispeace. "

She turned half around. Her eyes fell on Philip. His face wascolourless, almost fierce; his forehead was deathly white. She was surethat something was about to happen. 

Now was the moment for the miracle. It seemed to her as if the wholecongregation were beginning to divine what tie there was between him andher. She did not care, for he would soon declare it. He was going to doso now; he had raised his head, he was about to speak. 

No, there was no miracle. Philip's eyes fell before her eyes, and hishead went down. He was only digging at the red baize with one of hisfeet. She felt tired, so very tired, and oh! so cold. The parson hadgone on with his reading. When she caught up with him he was saying--

"--as ye shall, answer at the great day of judgment, when the secrets ofall hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impedimentwhy ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do nowconfess it. "

The parson paused. He had always paused at that point. The pause had nomeaning for him, but for Kate how much! Impediment! There was indeed animpediment. Confess? How could she ever confess? The warning terrifiedher. It seemed to have been made for her alone. She had heard it before, and thought nothing of it. Now it seemed to scorch her very soul. Shebegan to tremble violently. 

There was an indistinct murmur which she did not catch. The parsonseemed to be speaking to Pete--

"--love her, comfort her, honour and keep her. . . So long as ye bothshall live. "

And then came Pete's voice, full and strong from his great chest, butfar off, and going by her ear like a voice in a shell--"I will. "

After that the parson's words seemed to be falling on her face. 

"Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together afterGod's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him andserve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; andforsaking all other, keep thee unto him, so long as ye both shall live?"

Kate was far away. She was spelling out the Manx text, "Bannet T'eshynTa Cheet, " but the letters were dancing in and out of each other, andyellow lights were darting from her eyes. Suddenly she was aware thatthe parson's voice had stopped. There was blank silence, then an uneasyrustle, and then somebody was saying something in a soft tone. 

"Eh?" she said aloud. 

The parson's voice came now in a whisper at her breast--"Say, 'I will. '"

"Ah I, " she murmured. 

"I-will! That's all, my dear. Say it with me, 'I--will. '"

She framed her lips to speak, but the words were half uttered by theparson. The next thing she knew was that a stray hand was holding herhand. She felt more safe now that her poor cold fingers lay in that bigwarm palm. 

It was Pete, and he was speaking again. She did not so much hear him asfeel his voice tingling through her veins. 

"I, Peter Quilliam, take thee, Katherine Cregeen----'"

But it was all a vague murmur, fraying off into nothing, ending like awave with a long upward plash of low sound. 

The parson was speaking to her again, softly, gently, caressingly, almost as if she were a frightened child. "Don't be afraid, my dear! tryto speak after me. Take your time. "

Then, aloud, "'I, Katherine Cregeen. '"

Her throat gurgled; she faltered, but she spoke at length in thetoneless voice of one who speaks in sleep. 

"'I, Katherine Cregeen---'"

"'Take thee, Peter Quilliam----'"

The toneless voice broke---- "take thee, Peter Quilliam------'"

And then all came in a rush, with some of the words distinctly repeated, and some of them droned and dropped--

"--'to my wedded husband, to have and to hold-----'"

"--'have and to hold-----'"

"--'from this day forward. . . . Till death do us part-----'"

"--'death do us part------'"

"--'therefore I give thee my troth------'"

"--'troth------'"

The last word fell like a broken echo, and then there was a rustle inthe church, and much audible breathing. Some of the school-girls in thegallery were reaching over the pews with parted lips and dancing eyes. 

Pete had taken her left hand, and was putting the ring on her finger. She was conscious of his warm breath and of the words--

"With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all myworldly goods I thee endow, Amen. "

Again she left her cold hand in Pete's warm hand. He was stroking it onthe outside with his other one. 

It was all a dream. She seemed to rally from it as she moved down theaisle. Ghostly faces were smiling at her out of the air on either side, and the choir in the gallery behind the school-girls were singing thepsalm, with John the Clerk's husky voice drawling out the first wordof each new verse as his companions were singing the last word of thepreceding one--

 "Thy wife shall be as the fruitful vine upon the walls of thine house; Thy children like the olive branches round about thy table. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be; World without end, A--men. "

They were all in the vestry now, standing together in a group. Hermother was wiping her eyes, Pete was laughing, and Nancy Joe wasnudging him and saying in an audible whisper, "Kiss her, man--it's onlyrespectable. "

The parson was leaning over the table. He spoke to Pete, and then said, "A substantial mark, too. The lady's turn next. "

The open book was before her, and the pen was put into her hand. Whenshe laid it down, the parson returned his spectacles to their sheath, and a nervous voice, which thrilled and frightened her, said frombehind, "Let me be the first to wish you happiness, Mrs. Quilliam. "

It was Philip. She turned towards him, and their eyes met for a moment. But she was only conscious of his prominent nose, his clear-cut chin, his rapid smile like sunshine, disappearing as before a cloud. He saidsomething else--something about a new life and a new beginning--but shecould not gather its meaning, her mind would not take it in. At the nextmoment they were all in the open air. 

XXII. 

Philip had been in torment--first the torment of an irresistible hatredof Kate. He knew that this hatred was illogical, that it was monstrous;but it supported his pride, it held him safe above self-contempt inbeing present at the wedding. When the carriage drew up at the churchgate, and he helped Kate to alight, he thought she looked up at him asone who says, "You see, things are not so bad after all!" And when sheturned her face to him at the beginning of the service, he thoughtit wore a look of fierce triumph, of victory, of disdain. But as theceremony proceeded and he observed her absent-ness, her vacancy, herpathetic imbecility, he began to be oppressed by an awful sense of herconsciousness of error. Was she taking this step out of pique? Was shethinking to punish him, forgetting the price she would have to pay?Would she awake to-morrow morning with her vexation and vanity gone, face to face with a hideous future--the worst and most terrible thatis possible to any woman--that of being married to one man and lovinganother?

Faugh! Would his own vanity haunt him even there? Shame, shame! Heforced himself to do the duty of a best man. In the vestry he approachedthe bride and muttered the conventional wishes. His heart was devouringitself like a rapid fire, and it was as much as he could do to lookinto her piteous eyes and speak. Struggle as he might at that moment, hecould not put out of his heart a passionate tenderness. This frightenedhim, and straightway he resolved to see no more of Kate. He must be fairto her, he must be true to himself. But walking behind her up the pathstrewn with flowers from the church door to the gate, the gnawings ofthe worm of buried love came on him again, and he felt like a man whowas being dragged through the dirt. 

XXIII. 

Four saddle-horses, each with its rider seated and ready, had beenwaiting at the churchyard gate, pawing up the gravel. The instant thebride and bridegroom came out of the church the horses set off forCæsar's house at a furious gallop. Kate and Pete, Cæsar, Grannie, andNancy, with the addition of Philip and Parson Quiggin, returned in thecovered carriage. 

At the turn of the road the way was blocked by a group of stalwart girlsout of the last of the year's cornfields. With the straw rope of thestackyard stretched across, they demanded toll before the carriage wouldbe allowed to pass. Pete, who sat by the door, put his head out andinquired solemnly if the highway women would take their charge in silveror in kind--half-a-crown apiece or a kiss all round. They laughed, andanswered that they saw no objection to taking both. Whereupon Pete, whispering behind his hand that the mistress was looking, tossed intothe air a paper bag, which rose like a cannon-ball, broke in the airlike a shell, and fell over their white sun-bonnets like a shower. 

At the door of "The Manx Fairy" the four riders were waiting withsmoking horses. The first to arrive had been rewarded already with abottle of rum. He had one other ancient privilege. As the coach drove upto the door, he stepped up to the bride with the wedding-cake and brokeit over her head. Then there was a scramble for the pieces among thegirls who gathered round her, that they might take them to bed and dreamof a day to come when they should themselves be as proud and happy. 

The wedding-breakfast (a wedding-dinner) was laid in the loft of themill, the chapel of The Christians. Cæsar sat at the head of the table, with Grannie on one side and Kate on the other. Pete sat next to Kate, and Philip next to Grannie. The parson sat at the foot with Nancy Joe, alady of consequence, receiving much consideration, at his reverent righthand. Jonaique Jelly sat midway down the table, with a fine scorn onhis features, for John the Clerk sat opposite with a fiddle grippedbetween his knees. 

The neighbours brought in the joints of beef and mutton, the chickensand the ducks. Cæsar and the parson carved. Black Tom, who had beeninvited by way of truce, served out the liquor from an eighteen-galloncask, and sucked it up himself like the sole of an old shoe. Then Cæsarsaid grace, and the company fell to. Such noise, such sport, such chaff, such laughter! Everything was a jest--every word had wit in it. "How areyou doing, John?"--"Haven't done as well for a month, sir; but what'sit saying, two hungry meals make the third a glutton. "--"How are _you_doing, Tom?"--"No time to get a right mouthful for myself Cæsar; keptso busy with the drink. "--"Aw, there'll be some with their top workshampered soon. "--"Got plenty, Jonaique?"--"Plenty, sir, plenty. Enoughdown here to victual a menagerie. It'll be Sunday every day of the weekwith the man that's getting the lavings. "--"Take a taste of thisbeef before it goes, Mr. Thomas Quilliam, or do you prefer themutton?"--"I'm not partic'lar, Mr. Cregeen. Ateing's nothing to mebut filling a sack that's empty. "

Grannie praised the wedding service--it was lovely--it wasbeautiful--she didn't think the ould parzon could have made the like;but Cæsar criticised both church and clergy--couldn't see what for thecross on the pulpit and the petticoat on the parson. "Popery, sir, clanePopery, " he whispered across Grannie to Philip. 

Away went the shanks of mutton, the breasts of birds, and the slabs ofbeef, and up came an apple-pudding as round as a well-fed salmon, and aslong as a twenty-pound cod. There was a shout of welcome. "None of yourdynamite pudding that, --as green as grass and as sour as vinegar. "

Kate was called on to make the first cut of the monster. A faint colourhad returned to her cheeks since she had come home. She was talking alittle, and even laughing sometimes, as if the weight on her heartwas lightening every moment. She rose at the call, took, with the handnearest to the dish, the knife that her father held out, and plungedit into the pudding. As she did so, with all eyes upon her, thewedding-ring on her finger flashed in the light and was seen byeverybody. 

"Look at that, though, " cried Black Tom. "There's the wife for ahusband, if you plaze. Ashamed of showing it, is she? Not she, thebogh. "

Then there was much giggling among the younger women, and cries of "Aw, the poor girl! Going to church has been making her left-handed!"

"Time enough, my beauties, " cried Pete; "and mind you're not struck thatway yourselves one of these days. "

Away went the dishes, and the parson rose to return thanks. 

"Never heard that grace but once before, Parson Quiggin, " said Pete, "and then"--lighting his pipe--"then it was a burial sarvice. "

"A _burial_ sarvice!"

A dozen voices echoed the words together, and in a moment the table wasquiet. 

"Yes, though, " said Pete. "It was up at Johannesburg. Two chums settledthere, and one married a girl. Nice lil thing, too; some of the Boergirls, you know; but not much ballast at her at all. The husband wentup country for the Consolidated Co. , and when he came back there wastrouble. Chum had been sweethearting the wife a bit!"

"Aw, dear!"--"Aw, well, well!"

"Do? The husband? He went after the chum with a repeater, and took him. Bath-chair sort of a chap--no fight in him at all. 'Mercy!' he cries. 'Ican't, ' says the husband. 'Forgive him this once, ' says the wife. 'It'sonly once a woman loses herself, ' says the man. 'Mercy, mercy!' 'Sayyour prayers. ' 'Mercy, mercy, mercy!' 'Too late!' and the husband shothim dead. The woman dropped in a faint, but the man said, 'He didn't sayhis prayers, though--I must be doing it for him. ' Then down he went onhis knees by the body, but the prayers were all forgot at him--all butthe bit of a grace, so he said that instead. "

Loud breathings on every side followed Pete's story, and Cæsar, leaningover towards Philip, whose face had grown ashy, said, "Terrible, sir, terrible! But still and for all, right enough, though, eh! What's itsaying, Better an enemy than a bad friend. "

Philip answered absently; his eyes were on the opposite side of thetable. There was a sudden rising of the people about Kate. 

"Water, there, " shouted Pete. "It's a thundering blockhead I am forsure--frightning the life out of people with stories fit for a funeral. "

"No, no, " said Kate; "I'm not faint Why should you think so?"

"Of coorse, not, bogh, " said Nancy, who was behind her in a twinkling. "White is she? Well, what of it, man? It's only becoming on a girl'swedding-day. Take a lil sup, though, woman--there, there!"

Kate drank the water, with the glass jingling against her teeth, andthen began to laugh. The parson's ruddy face rose at the end of thetable. "Friends, " he said, "after that tragic story, let us indulge ina little vanity. Fill up your glasses to the brim, and drink with me tothe health of the happy couple. We all know both of them. We know thebride for a good daughter and a sweet girl--one so naturally pure thatnobody can ever say an evil word or think an evil thought when she isnear. We know the bridegroom for a real Manxman, simple and rugged andtrue, who says all he thinks and thinks all he says. God has beenvery good to them. Such virginal and transparent souls have much to bethankful for. It is not for them to struggle with that worst enemy ofman, the enemy that is within, the enemy of bad passions. So we can wishthem joy on their union with a full heart and a sure hope that, whateverchance befall them on the ways of this world, they will be happy andcontent. "

"Aw, the beautiful advice, " said Grannie, wiping her eyes. 

"Popery, just Popery, " muttered Cæsar. "What about original sin?"

There was a chorus of applause. Kate was still laughing. Philip's headwas down. 

"And now, friends, " continued the parson, "Captain Quilliam has been asuccessful man abroad, but he has had to come home to do the best pieceof work he ever did. " (A voice--"Do it yourself, parzon. ") "It is trueI've never done it myself. Vanity of vanities, love is not for me. It'sbeen the Lord's will to put me here to do the marrying and leave mypeople to do the loving. But there is a young man present who has allthe world before him and everything this life can promise except onething, and that's the best thing of all--a wife. " (Kate's laughter grewboisterous. ) "This morning he helped his friend to marry a pure andbeautiful maiden. Now let me remind him of the text which says, 'Go thouand do likewise. '"

The toast was drunk standing, with shouts of "Cap'n Pete, " and, amid much hammering on the table, stamping on the floor, and otherthunderings of applause, Cap'n Pete rolled up to reply. After a moment'spause, in which he distributed sage winks and nods on every side, hesaid: "I'm not much for public spaking myself. I made my best speech andmy shortest in church this morning--_I will_. The parzon has has beentelling my _dooiney molla_ to do as I have done today. He can't. Beggingpardon of the ladies, there's only one woman on the island fit for him, and I've got her. " (Kate's laughter grew shrill. ) "My wife----"

At this word, uttered with an air of life-long familiarity, twentyclay pipes lost their heads by collision with the table, and Pete wasinterrupted by roars of laughter. 

"Gough bless me, can't a married man mention his wife in company? Wellthen. Mistress Cap'n Peter Quilliam----"

This mouthful was the signal for another riotous interruption, and ageneral call for more to drink. 

"Won't that do for you neither? I'm not going back on it, though. 'WhomGod hath joined together let no man put asunder'--isn't that it, ParzonQuiggin? What's it you're saying--no man but the Dempster? Well, theDempster's here that is to be--I'll clear him of _that_, anyway. "

Kate's laughter became explosive and uncontrollable. Pete noddedsideways to fill up the gap in his eloquence, and then went on. "But ifmy _dooiney molla_ can't marry my wife, there's one thing he can do forher--he can make her house his home in Ramsey when he goes to Douglasfor good and comes down here to the coorts once a fortnight. "

Kate laughed more immoderately than ever; but Philip, with a look ofalarm, half rose from his seat, and said across the table, "There's myaunt at Ballure, Pete. "

"She'll be following after you, " said Pete. 

"There are hotels enough for travellers, " said Philip. 

"Too many by half, and that's why I asked in public, " said Pete. 

"I know the brotherly feeling----" began Philip. 

"Is it a promise?" demanded Pete. 

"If I can't escape your kindness----"

"No, you can't; so there's an end of it. "

"It will kill me yet----"

"May you never die till it polishes you off. ". 

At Philip's submission to Pete's will, there was a general chorus ofcheers, through which Kate's shrill laughter rang like a scream. Petepatted the back of her hand, and continued, "And now, young fellowsthere, let an ould experienced married man give you a bit of advice--heswore away all his worldly goods this morning, so he hasn't much else togive. I've no belief in bachelors myself. They're like a tub without ahandle--nothing to lay hould of them by. " (Much nudging and whisperingabout the bottom of the table. ) "What's that down yonder? 'The vicar, 'you say? Aw, the vicar's a grand man, but he's only a parzon, you see. Mr. Christian, is it? He's got too much work to do to be thinking aboutwomen. We're living on the nineteenth century, boys, and it's middlinghard feeding for some of us. If the fishing's going to the dogs and thefarming going to the deuce, don't be tossing head over tip at the tailof the tourist. If you've got the pumping engine inside of you, in plainEnglish, if you've got the indomable character of the rael Manxman, doas I done--go foreign. Then watch your opportunity. What's Shake-sparsaying?" Pete paused. "What's that he's saying, now?" Pete scratched hisforehead. "Something about a flood, anyway. " Pete stretched his hand outvigorously. "'Lay hould of it at the flood, ' says he, 'that's the way tomake your fortune. '"

Then Pete melted to sentiment, glanced down at Kate's head, andcontinued, "And when you come back to the ould island--and there isn'tno place like it--you can marry the girl of your heart, God bless her. Work's black, but money's white, and love is as sweet on potatoes andherrings three times a day, as on nothing for dinner, and the same everynight of the week for supper. While you're away, you'll be draming ofher. 'Is she faithful?' 'Is she thrue?' Coorse she is, and waiting totake you the very minute you come home. " Kate was still laughing as ifshe could not stop. "Look out for the right sort, boys. Plenty of thelike in yet. If the young men of these days are more smart and moreeducated than their fathers, the young women are more handsome and morevirtuous than their mothers. So _ben-my-chree_, my hearties, and enoughin the locker to drive away the divil and the coroner. "

Through the volley of cheers which followed Pete's speech came thevoice of Black Tom, thick with drink, "Drive off the crow at thewedding-breakfast. "

Everybody rose and looked. A great crow, black as night, had come inat the open door of the mill, calmly, sedately, as if by habit, for thecorn that usually lay there. 

"It manes divorce, " said Black Tom. 

"Scare it away, " cried some one. 

"It's the new wife must do it, " said another. 

"Where's Kate?" cried Nancy. 

But Kate only looked and went on laughing as before. 

The crow turned tail and took flight of itself at finding so eageran audience. Then Pete said, "Whose houlding with such ould wife'swonders?"

And Cæsar answered, "Coorse not, or fairies either. I've slept out allnight on Cronk-ny-airy-Lhaa--before my days of grace, I mane--and Inever seen no fairies. "

"It would be a fool of a fairy, though, that would let _you_ see him, Cæsar, " said Black Tom. 

At nine o'clock Cæsar's gig was at the door of "The Manx Fairy" to takethe bride and bridegroom home. They had sung "Mylecharane, " and "Keeriefu Snaighty, " and "Hunting the Wren, " and "The Win' that Shook theBarley, " and then they had cleared away the tables and danced to thefiddle of John the Clerk and the clarionet of Jonaique Jelly. Kate, withwild eyes and flushed cheeks, had taken part in everything, but alwaysfiercely, violently, almost tempestuously, until people lost enjoymentof her heartiness in fear of her hysteria, and Cæsar whispered Pete totake her away, and brought round the gig to hasten them. 

Kate went up for her cloak and hat, and in the interval between herdeparture and reappearance, Grannie and Nancy Joe, both glorifiedbeings, Nancy with her unaccustomed cap askew, stood in the middle of agroup of women, who were deferring, and inquiring, and sympathising. 

"I don't know in the world how she has kept up so long, " said Grannie. 

"And dear heart knows how _I'm_ to keep up when she's gone, " said Nancy, with her apron to her eyes. 

Kate came down ready. Everybody followed her into the road, and allstood round the gig with flashes from the gig-lamps on their faces, while Pete swung her up into the seat, lifting her bodily in his greatarms. 

"You wouldn't drown yourself to-night for an ould rusty nail, eh, Capt'n?" cried somebody with a laugh. 

"You go bail, " said Pete, and he leapt up to Kate's side, twiddled thereins, cracked the whip, and they drove away. 

XXIV. 

Philip had stood at the door of the porch, struggling to command hissoul, and employing all his powers to look cheerful and even gay. But asKate had passed she had looked at him with an imploring look, and thenhe had seemed to understand everything--that she had made a mistake andthat she knew it, that her laughter had been bitterer than tears, thatsome compulsion had been put upon her, and that she was a wretched andmiserable woman. At the next moment she had gone by with an odourof lace and perfume; and then a flood of tenderness, of pity, of madjealousy had come upon him, and it had been as much as he could do torestrain himself. One instant he held himself in hand, and at the nextthe wheels of the gig had begun to move, the horse had started, thewomen had trooped into the house again, and there was nothing before himbut the broad back of Cæsar, who was looking into the darkness after thevanishing gig-lamps, and breathing asthmatical breath. 

"Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother and shall cleaveunto his wife, " said Cæsar. "You're time enough yet, sir; come in, comein. "

But the man was odious to Philip at that moment, the house was odious, the people and the talk inside were odious, and he slipped awayunobserved. 

Too late! From the torment of his own thoughts he could not escape--hislost love, his lost happiness, his memories of the past, his dreams ofthe future. A voice--it was his own voice--seemed to be taunting himconstantly: "You were not worthy of her. You did not know her value. Sheis gone; and what have you got instead!"

The Deemstership! That was of no consequence now. A name, an idle name!Love was the only thing worth having, and it was lost. Without it allthe rest was nothing, and he had flung it away. He had been a monster, he had been a fool. The thought of his folly was insupportable;the recollection of his selfishness was stifling; the memory of hiscalculating deliberations was dragging him again in the dust. Thus, witha sense of crushing shame, he plunged down the dark road, trying not tothink of the gig that had gone swinging along in front of him. 

He would leave the island. To-morrow he would sail for England. Nomatter if he lost the chance of promotion. To-morrow, to-morrow! Butto-night? How could he live through the hours until morning, with theblack thoughts which the darkness generated? How could he sleep? How lieawake? What drug would bring forgetfulness? Kate! Pete! To-night! Oh, God! oh, God!

XXV. 

Six strides of the horse into the darkness and Kate's hysteria wasgone. She had been lost to herself the whole day-through, and now shepossessed herself again. She grew quiet and silent, and even solemn. ButPete rattled on with cheerful talk about the day's doings. At the doorsof the houses on the road as they passed, people were standing in thehalf-light to wave them salutations, and Pete sent back his answers inshouts and laughter. Turning the bridge they saw a little group at theporch of the "Ginger. "

"There's company waiting for us yonder, " said Pete, giving the mare atouch of the whip. 

"Let us get on, " said Kate in a nervous whisper. 

"Aw, let's be neighbourly, you know, " said Pete. "It wouldn't be dacentto disappoint people at all. We'll hawl up for a minute just, and hoofup the time at a gallop. Woa, lass, woa, mare, woa, bogh!"

As the gig drew up at the inn door, a voice out of the porch cried, "Joyto you, Capt'n, and joy to your lady, and long life and prosperity toyou both, and may the Lord give you children and health and happiness torear them, and may you see your children's children, and may they callyou blessed. "

"Glasses round. Mrs. Kelly, " shouted Pete. 

"Go on, please, " said Kate in a fretful whisper, and she tugged atPete's sleeve. 

The stars came out; the moon gave a peep; the late hay of the Curraghsent a sweet odour through the night. Kate shuddered and Pete coveredher shoulders with a rug. Then he began to sing snatches. He sang bitsof all the songs that had been sung that night, but kept coming back atintervals to an old Manx ditty which begins--

 "Little red bird of the black turf ground, Where did you sleep last night?"

Thus he sang like a great boy as he went rolling down the dark road, andKate sat by his side and trembled. 

They came to the town, rattled down the Parliament Street, passed theCourt-house under the trees, turned the sharp angle by the market-place, and drew up at Elm Cottage in the corner. 

"Home at last, " cried Pete, and he leapt to the ground. 

A dog began to bark inside the house. "D'ye hear him?" said Pete. "That's the master in charge. "

The porch door was opened, and a comfortable-looking woman in a widow'scap came out with a lighted candle shaded by her hand. 

"And this is your housekeeper, Mrs. Gorry, " said Pete. 

Kate did not answer. Her eyes had been fixed in a rigid stare on thehind-quarters of the horse, which were steaming in the light of thelamps. Pete lifted her down as he had lifted her up. Then Mrs. Gorrytook her by the hand, and saying, "Mind the step, ma'am--this way, ma'am, " led her through the gate and along the garden path, and upto the porch. The porch opened on a square hall, furnished as asitting-room. A fire was burning, a lamp was lit, the table was laid forsupper, and the place was warm and cosy. 

"_There!_ What d'ye say to _that_?" cried Pete, coming behind with thewhip in his hand. 

Kate looked around; she did not speak; her eyes began to fill. 

"Isn't it fit for a Dempster's lady?" said Pete, sweeping thewhip-handle round the room like a showman. 

Kate could bear no more. She sank into a chair and burst into a fit oftears. Pete's glowing face dropped in an instant. 

"Dear heart alive, darling, what is it?" he said. "My poor girl, what'stroubling you at all? Tell me, now--tell me, bogh, tell me. "

"It's nothing, Pete, nothing. Don't ask me, " said Kate. But still shesobbed as if her heart would break. 

Pete stood a moment by her side, smoothing her arm with his hand. Thenhe said, with a crack and a quaver in his great voice, "It _is_ hardfor a girl, I know that, to lave father and mother and every one andeverything that's been sweet and dear to her since she was a child, andto come to the house of her husband and say, 'The past has been verygood to me; but still and for all, I'm for trusting the future to you. 'It's hard, darling; I know it's hard. "

"Oh, leave me! leave me!" cried Kate, still weeping. 

Pete brushed his sleeve across his eyes, and said, "Take her upstairs, Mrs. Gorry, while I'm putting up the mare at the 'Saddle. '"

Then he whistled to the dog, which had been watching him from thehearthrug, and went out of the house. The handle of the whip draggedafter him along the floor. 

Mrs. Gorry, full of trouble, took Kate to her room. Would she not eather supper? Then salts were good for headache-should she bring a bottlefrom her box? After many fruitless inquiries and nervous protestations, the good soul bade Kate good-night and left her. 

Being alone, Kate broke into yet wilder paroxysms of weeping. Thestorm-cloud which had been gathering had burst at last. It seemed as ifthe whole weight of the day had been deferred until then. The piled-uphopes of weeks had waited for that hour, to be cast down in the sightof her own eyes. It was all over. The fight with Fate was done, and thefrantic merriment with which she had kept down her sense of the placewhere the blind struggle had left her made the sick recoil more bitter. 

She thought of Philip, and her trouble began to moderate. Somewhere outof the uncrushed part of her womanhood there came one flicker of womanlypride to comfort her. She saw Philip at last from the point of revenge. He loved her; he would never cease to love her. Do what he might tobanish the thought of her, she would be with him always; the more surelywith him, the more reproachfully and unattainably, because she wouldbe the wife of another man. If he could put her away from him in thedaytime, and in the presence of those worldly aims for which he hadsacrificed her, when night came he would be able to put her away nomore. He would never sleep but he would see her. In every dream he wouldstretch out his arms to her, but she would not be there, and he wouldawake with sobs and in torment. There was a real joy in this thought, although it tore her heart so terribly. 

She got strength from the cruel comforting, and Mrs. Gorry in the roombelow, listening intently, heard her crying cease. With her face stillshut in both her hands, she was telling herself that she had nothing toreproach herself with; that she could not have acted differently; thatshe had not really made this marriage; that she had only submitted toit, being swept along by the pitiless tide, which was her father, andPete, and everybody. She was telling herself, too, that, after all, shehad done well. Here she lay in close harbour from the fierce storm whichhad threatened her. She was safe, she was at peace. 

The room lay still. The night was very quiet within those walls. Katedrew down her hands and looked about her. The fire was burning gently, and warming her foot on the sheepskin rug that lay in front of it. Alamp burned low on a table behind her chair. At one side there was awardrobe of the shape of an old press, but with a tall mirror in thedoor; on the other side there was the bed, with the pink curtainshanging like a tent. The place had a strange look of familiarity. Itseemed as if she had known it all her life. She rose to look around, andthen the inner sense leapt to the outer vision, and she saw how it was. The room was a reproduction of her own bedroom at home, only newer andmore luxurious. It was almost as if some ghost of herself had been therewhile she slept--as if her own hand had done everything in a dream ofher girlhood wherein common things had become grand. 

Kate's eyes began to fill afresh, and she turned to take off her cloak. As she did so, she saw something on the dressing-table with a labelattached to it. She took it up. It was a little mirror, a handglasslike her own old one, only framed in ivory, and the writing on the labelran--

 Insted of The one that is bruk with fond Luv to Kirry. 

 peat. 

Her heart was now beating furiously. A flood of feeling had rushed overher. She dropped the glass as if it stung her fingers. With both handsshe covered her face. Everything in the room seemed to be accusing her. Hitherto she had thought only of Philip. Now for the first time shethought of Pete. 

She had wronged him--deeply, awfully, beyond atonement or hope offorgiveness. He loved her; he had married her; he had brought her tohis home, to this harbour of safety, and she had deceived and betrayedhim--she had suffered herself to be married to him while still lovinganother man. 

A sudden faintness seized her. She grew dizzy and almost fell. A moreterrible memory had come behind. The thought was like ravens flappingtheir black wings on her brain. She felt her temples beating against herhands. They seemed to be sucking the life out of her heart. 

Just then the voice of Pete came beating up the echoes between the houseand the chapel beyond the garden--

 "Little red bird of the black turf ground, Where did you sleep last night?"

She heard him open the garden gate, clash it back, come up the path withan eager step, shut the door of the house and chain it on the inside. Then she heard his deep voice speaking below. 

"Better now, Mrs. Gorry?"

"Aw, better, sir, yes, and quiet enough this ten minutes. "

"Give her time, the bogh! Be aisy with the like, be aisy. "

Presently she heard him send off Mrs. Gorry for the night, saying heshould want no supper, and should be going to bed soon. Then the housebecame quiet, and the smell of tobacco smoke came floating up thestairs. 

Kate's hot breath on her hands grew damp against her face. She feltherself swooning, and she caught hold of the mantelpiece. 

"It cannot be, " she thought. "He must not come. I will go down to himand say, 'Pete, forgive me, I am really the wife of another. '"

Then she would tell him everything. Yes, she would confess all now. Oh, she would not be afraid. His love was great. He would do what shewished. 

She made one step towards the door, and was pulled up as by a curb. Petewould say, "Do you mean that you have been using me as a cloak? Do youask me to live in this house, side by side with you, and let no onesuspect that we are apart? Then why did you not ask me yesterday? Why doyou ask me to-day, when it is too late to choose?"

No, she could not confess. If confession had been difficult yesterday, it was a thousand times more difficult to-day, and it would be athousand thousand times more difficult tomorrow. 

Kate caught up the cloak she had thrown aside. She must go away. Anywhere, anywhere, no matter where. That was the one thing left toher--the only escape from the wild tangle of dread and pain. Pete was inthe hall; there must be a way out at the back; she would find it. 

She lowered the lamp, and turned the handle of the door. Then she saw alight moving on the landing, and heard a soft step on the stairs. Itwas Pete, with a candle, coming up in his stockinged feet. He stoppedmidway, as if he heard the click of the latch, and then went noiselesslydown again. 

Kate closed the door. She would not go. If she left the house that nightshe would cover Pete with suspicion and disgrace. The true secret wouldnever be known; the real offender would never suffer; but the finger ofscorn would be raised at the one man who had sheltered and shielded her, and he would die of humiliation and blind self-reproach. 

This reflection restrained her for the moment, and when the stress ofit was spent she was mastered by a fear that was far more terrible. Forgood or for all she was now married to Pete, and he had the rights ofa husband. He had a right to come to her, and he _would_ come. Itwas inevitable; it had to be. No boy or girl love now, no wooing, nodallying, no denying, but a grim reality of life--a reality that comesto every woman who is married to a man. She was married to Pete. In theeye of the world, in the eye of the law, she was his, and to fly fromhim was impossible. 

She must remain. God himself had willed it As for the shame of herformer relation to Philip, it was her own secret. God alone knew of it, and He would keep it safe. It was the dark chamber of her heart whichGod only could unlock. He would never unlock it until the Day ofJudgment, and then Philip would be standing by her side, and she wouldcast it back upon him, and say, "His, not mine, O God, " and the GreatJudge of all would judge between them. 

But she began to cry again, like a child in the dark. As she threw offher cloak a second time, her dress crinkled, and she looked down at itand remembered that it was her wedding-dress. Then she looked around atthe room, and remembered that it was her wedding chamber. She rememberedhow she had dreamt of coming in her bridal dress to her bridalroom--proud, afraid, tingling with love, blushing with joy, whisperingto herself, "This is for me--and this--and this. _He_ has given it, forhe loves me and I love him, and he is mine and I am his, and he is mylove and my lord, and he is coming to--"

There was a gentle knocking at the door. It made her flesh creep. Theknock came again. It went shrieking through and through her. 

"Kirry, " whispered a voice from without. 

She did not stir. 

"It's only Pete. "

She neither spoke nor moved. 

There was silence for a moment, and then, half nervously, half jovially, half in laughter, half with emotion as if the heart outside waspalpitating, the voice came again, "I'm coming in, darling!"

PART IV. MAN AND WIFE. 

I. 

Next morning Kate said to herself, "My life must begin again fromto-day. " She had a secret that Pete did not share, but she was not thefirst woman who had kept something from her husband. When people hadsecrets which it would hurt others to reveal, they ought to keep themclose. Honour demanded that she should be as firm as a rock in blottingPhilip from her soul. Remembering the promise which Pete had demanded ofPhilip at the wedding to make their house his home in Ramsey, and seeingthat Philip must come, if only to save appearances, she asked herselfif she ought to prevent him. But no! She resolved to conquer the passionthat made his presence a danger. There was no safety in separation. Inher relation to Philip she was like the convict who is beginning hislife again--the only place where he can build up a sure career isprecisely there where his crime is known. "Let Philip come, " shethought. She made his room ready. 

She was married. It was her duty to be a good wife. Pete lovedher--his love would make it easy. They were sitting at breakfast in thehall-parlour, and she said, "I should like to be my own housekeeper, Pete. "

"And right, too, " said Pete. "Be your own woman, darling--not yourwoman's woman--and have Mrs. Gorry for your housemaid. "

To turn her mind from evil thoughts, she set to work immediately, andbusied herself with little duties, little economies, little cares, little troubles. But the virtues of housekeeping were just those forwhich she had not prepared herself. Her first leg of mutton was roasteddown to the proportions of a frizzled shank, and her first pudding wasbaked to the colour and consistency of a badly burnt brick. She did notmend rapidly as a cook, but Pete ate of all that his faultless teethcould grind through, and laid the blame on his appetite when hisdigestion failed. 

She strove by other industries to keep alive a sense of her duty as awife. Buying rolls of paper at the paperhanger's, she set about paperingevery closet in the house. The patterns did not join and the paste didnot adhere. She initialled in worsted the new blankets sent by Grannie, with a P and a Q and a K intertwined. Than she overhauled the linen;turned out every room twice a week; painted every available woodenfixture with paint which would not dry because she had mixed it herselfto save a sixpence a stone and forgotten the turpentine. Pete held uphis hands in admiration at all her failures. She had thought it would beeasy to be a good wife to a good husband. It was hard--hard for anyone, hardest of all for her. There are the ruins of a happy woman in thebosom of every over-indulged wife. 

She could not keep to anything long, but every night for a week shegave Pete lessons in reading, writing, and arithmetic. His reading waslaborious, his spelling was eccentric, his figuring he did on the tipsof his heavy fingers, and his writing he executed with his tongue in hischeek and his ponderous thumb down on the pen nib. 

"What letter is that, Pete?" she said, pointing with her knitting needleto the page of a book of poems before them. 

Pete looked up in astonishment. "Is it _me_ you're asking, Kitty? If_you_ don't know, _I_ don't know. "

"That's a capital M, Pete. "

"Is it, now?" said Pete, looking at the letter with a searching eye. "Goodness me, the straight it's like the gate of the long meadow. "

"And that's a capital A. "

"Sakes alive, the straight it's like the coupling of the cart-house. "

"And that's a B. "

"Gough bless me, d'ye say so? But the straight it's like the hoof of abull, though. "

"And M A B spells Mab--Queen Mab, " said Kate, going on with herknitting. 

Pete looked up at her with eyes wide open. "I suppose, now, " he said, ina voice of pride, "I suppose you're knowing all the big spells yourself, Kitty?"

"Not all. Sometimes I have to look in the dictionary, " said Kate. 

She showed him the book and explained its uses. 

"And is it taiching you to spell every word, Kitty?" he asked. 

"Every ordinary word, " said Kate. 

"My gough!" said Pete, touching the book with awe. 

Next day he pored over the dictionary for an hour, but when he raisedhis face it wore a look of scepticism and scorn. "This spelling-bookisn't taiching you nothing, darling, " he said. 

"Isn't it. Pete?"

"No, nothing, " said Pete. "Here I've been looking for an ordinaryword--a _very_ ordinary word--and it isn't in. "

"What word is it?" said Elate, leaning over his shoulder. 

"_Love_, " said Pete. "See, " pointing his big forefinger, "that's whereit ought to be, and where is it?"

"But _love_ begins _lo_, " said Kate, "and you're looking at _lu_. Hereit is--love. "

Pete gave a prolonged whistle, then fell back in his chair, lookedslowly up and said, "So you must first know how the word begins; is thatit, Kitty?"

"Why, yes, " said Kate. 

"Then it's you that's taiching the spelling-book, darling; so we'll putit back on the shelf. "

For a fortnight Kate read and replied to Pete's correspondence. It wasplentiful and various. Letters from heirs to lost fortunes offeringshares in return for money to buy them out of Chancery; from promotersof companies proposing dancing palaces to meet the needs of Englishvisitors; from parsons begging subscriptions to new organs; fromfashionable ladies asking Pete to open bazaars; from preachers invitinghim to anniversary tea-meetings, and saying Methodism was proud of him. If anybody wanted money, he kissed the Blarney Stone and applied toPete. Kate stood between him and the worst of the leeches. The best ofthem he contrived to deal with himself, secretly and surreptitiously. Sometimes there came acknowledgments of charities of which Kate knewnothing. Then he would shuffle them away and she would try not to seethem. "If I stop him altogether, I will spoil him, " she thought. 

One day the post brought a large envelope with a great seal at theback of it, and Kate drew out a parchment deed and began to read theindorsement--"'Memorandum of loan to Cæsar Cre-----'"

"That's nothing, " said Pete, snatching the document and stuffing it intohis jacket-pocket. 

Kate lifted her eyes with a look of pain and shame and humiliation, andthat was the end of her secretaryship. 

II. 

A month after their marriage a man came through the gate with the air ofone who was doing a degrading thing. The dog, which had been spread outlazily in the sun before the porch, leapt up and barked furiously. 

"Who's this coming up the path with his eyes all round him like ascallop?" said Pete. 

Kate looked. "It's Ross Christian, " she said, with a catch in herbreathing. 

Ross came up, and Pete met him at the door. His face was puffy and pale, his speech was soft and lisping, yet there lurked about the man an airof levity and irony. 

"Your dog doesn't easily make friends, Peter, " he said. 

"He's like his master, sir; it's against the principles of his life, "said Pete. 

Ross laughed a little. "Wants to be approached with consideration, doeshe, Capt'n?"

"You see, he's lived such a long time in the world and seen such adale, " said Pete. 

Ross looked up sharply and said in another tone, "I've just droppedin to congratulate you on your return home in safety and health andprosperity, Mr. Quilliam. "

"You're welcome, sir, " said Pete. 

Pete led the way indoors. Ross followed, bowed distantly to Kate, whowas unpicking a dress, and took a chair. 

"I must not conceal from you, however, that I have another object--infact, a private matter, " said Ross, glancing at Kate. 

The dress rustled in Kate's fingers, her scissors dropped on to thetable, and she rose to go. 

Pete raised his hand. "My wife knows all my business, " he said. 

Ross gave out another little chirp of laughter. "You'll remember whatthey say of a secret, Captain--too big for one, right for two, tight forthree. "

"A man and his wife are one, sir--so that's two altogether, " said Pete. 

Kate took up the scissors and went on with her work uneasily. Rosstwisted on his seat and said, "Well, I feel I _must_ tell you, Peter. "

"Quilliam, sir, " said Pete, charging a pipe; but Ross pretended not tohear. 

"Only natural, perhaps, for it--in fact, it's about our father. "

"Tongue with me, tongue with thee, " thought Pete, lighting up. 

"Five years ago he made me an allowance, and sent me up to London tostudy law. He believes I've been called to the English bar, and, in viewof this vacant Deemstership, he wants me admitted to the Manx one. "

Pete's pipe stopped in its puffing. "Well?"

"That's impossible, " said Ross. 

"Things haven't come with you, eh?"

"To tell you the truth, Captain, on first going up I fell intoextravagant company. I thought my friends were rich men, and I was nevera niggard. There was Monty, the patron of the Fancy"--the scissors inKate's hand clicked and stopped--and Ross blurted out, "In fact, I've_not_ been called, and I've never studied at all. "

Ross squirmed in his chair, glancing under his brows at Kate. Peteleaned forward and puffed up the chimney without speaking. 

"You see I speak freely, Peter--something compels me. Well, if a mancan't reveal his little failings to his own brother, Peter----"

"Don't let's talk about brothers, " said Pete. "What am I to do for you?"

"Lend me enough to help me to do what our father thinks I've donealready, " said Ross, and then he added, hastily, "Oh, I'll give you mynote of hand for it. "

"They're telling me, sir, " said Pete, "your notes of hand are as cheapas cowries. "

"Some one has belied me to you, Captain. But for our father's sake--hehas set his heart on this Deemstership--there may still be time for it. "

"Yes, " said Pete, striking his open hand on the table, "and better mento fill it. "

Ross glanced at Kate, and a smile that was half a sneer crossed his evilface. "How nice, " he said, "when the great friends of the wife are alsothe great friends of the husband. "

"Just so, " said Pete, and then Ross laughed a little, and the clickingof Kate's scissors stopped again. "As to you, sir, " said Pete, rising, "if it's no disrespect, you're like the cormorant that chokes itselfswallowing its fish head-ways up. The gills are sticking in yourgizzard, sir, only, " touching Ross's shoulder with something between apat and push, "you shouldn't be coming to your father's son to help youto ram it down. "

As Ross went out Cæsar came in. "That wastrel's been wanting something, "said Cæsar. 

"The tide's down on him, " said Pete. 

"Always was, and always will be. He was born at low water, and he'll dieon the rocks. Borrowing money, eh?" said Cæsar, with a searching glance. 

"Trying to, " said Pete indifferently. 

"Then lend it, sir, " said Cæsar promptly. "He's not to trust, but lendit on his heirship. Or lend it the ould man at mortgage on Ballawhaine. He's the besom of fire--it'll come to you, sir, at the father's death, and who has more right?"

The shank of Pete's pipe came down from his mouth as he sat for somemoments beating out the ash on the jockey bar. "Something in that, though, " he said mechanically. "But there's another has first claim forall. He'd be having the place now if every one had his own. I must bethinking of it--I must be thinking of it. "

III. 

Philip had left the island on the morning after the marriage. He hadgone abroad, and when they heard from him first he was at Cairo. Thevoyage out had done him good--the long, steady nights going downthe Mediterranean--walking the deck alone--the soft air--the far-offlights--thought he was feeling better--calmer anyway. He hoped they weresettled in their new home, and well--and happy. Kate had to read theletter aloud. It was like a throb of Philip's heart made faint, feeble, and hardly to be felt by the great distance. Then she had to reply to iton behalf of Pete. 

"Tell him to be quick and come out of the land of Egypt and the house ofbondage, " said Pete. "Say there's no manner of sense of a handsome youngman living in a country where there isn't a pretty face to be seen onthe sunny side of a blanket. Write that Kirry joins with her love andbest respects and she's busy whitewashing, and he'd better have no truckwith Pharaoh's daughters. "

The next time they heard from Philip he was at Rome. He had sufferedfrom sleeplessness, but was not otherwise unwell. Living in that citywas like an existence after death--all the real life was behind you. Butit was not unpleasant to walk under the big moon amid the wrecks of thepast. He congratulated Mrs. Quilliam on her active occupation--work wasthe same as suffering--it was strength and power. Kate had to read thisletter also. It was like a sob coming over the sea. 

"Give him a merry touch to keep up his pecker, " said Pete. "Tell him theRomans are ter'ble jealous chaps, and, if he gets into a public housefor a cup of tay, he's to mind and not take the girls on his knee--theRomans don't like it. "

The last time they heard from Philip he was in London. His old pain hadgiven way; he thought he was nearly well again, but he had comethrough a sharp fire. The Governor had been very good--kept open theDeemstership by some means--also surrounded him with London friends--hewas out every night. Nevertheless, an unseen force was drawing himhome--they might see him soon, or it might be later he had beensix months away, but he felt that it had not been all waste andinterruption--he would return with a new sustaining power. 

This letter could not be answered, for it bore no address. It came bythe night-mail with the same day's steamer from England. Two hours laterMrs. Gorry ran in from an errand to the town saying--

"I believe in my heart I saw Mr. Philip Christian going by on the road. "

"When?" said Pete. 

"This minute, " she answered. 

"Chut! woman, " said Pete; "the man's in London. Look, here's hisletter"--running his forefinger along the headline--'"London, January21st--that's yesterday. See!"

Mrs. Gorry was perplexed. But the next night she was out at the samehour on the same errand, and came flying into the house with a scaredlook, making the same announcement. 

"See for yourself, then, " she cried, "he's going up the lane by thegarden. "

"Nonsense! it's browning you're ateing with your barley, " said Pete; andthen to Kate, behind his hand, he whispered, "Whisht! It's sightsshe's seeing, poor thing--and no wonder, with her husband laving her solately. "

But the third night also Mrs. Gorry returned from a similar errand, atthe same hour, with the same statement. 

"I'm sure of it, " she panted. She was now in terror. An idea of thesupernatural had taken hold of her. 

"The woman manes it, " said Pete, and he began to cross-question her. Howwas Mr. Christian dressed? She hadn't noticed that night, but the firstnight he had worn a coat like an old Manx cape. Which way was he going?She couldn't be certain which way to-night but the night before he hadgone up the lane between the chapel and the garden. Had she seen hisface at all? The first time she had seen it, and it was very thin andpale. 

"Oh, I wouldn't deceave you, sir, " said Mrs. Gorry, and she fell tocrying. 

"Gough bless me, but this is mortal strange, though, " said Pete. 

"What time was it exactly, Jane?" asked Kate. 

"On the minute of ten every night, " answered Mrs. Gorry. 

"Is there any difference in time, now, " said Pete, "between the Isle ofMan and London, Kitty?"

"Nothing to speak of, " said Kate. 

Pete scratched his head. "I must be putting a sight up on Black Tom. Adirty old trouss, God forgive me, if he is my grandfather, but he knowsthe Manx yarns about right. If it had been Midsummer day now, and Philiphad been in bed somewhere, it might have been his spirit coming homewhile he was sleeping to where his heart is--they're telling of thelike, anyway. "

Kate read the mystery after her own manner, and on the following night, at the approach of ten o'clock, she went into the parlour of the hall, whence a window looked out on to the road. The day had been dull and thenight was misty. A heavy white hand seemed to have come down on to theface of sea and land. Everything lay still and dead and ghostly. Katewas in the dark room, trembling, but not with fear. Presently a formthat was like a shadow passed under a lamp that glimmered opposite. Shecould see only the outlines of a Spanish cape. But she listened forthe footsteps, and she knew them. They came on and paused, came up andpaused again, and then they went past and deadened off and died in thedense night-air. 

Kate's eyes were red and swollen when she came back to supper. Shehad promised herself enjoyment of Philip's sufferings. There was noenjoyment, but only a cry of yearning from the deep place where lovecalls to love. She tried afresh to make the thought of Philip sink tothe lowest depth of her being. It was hard--it was impossible; Pete wasfor ever strengthening the recollection of him--of his ways, hislook, his voice, his laugh. What he said was only the echo of her ownthoughts; but it was pain and torment, nevertheless. She felt likecrying, "Let me alone--let me alone!"

People in the town began to talk of Mrs. Gorry's mysterious stories. 

"Philip will be forced to come now, " thought Kate; and he came. Kate wasalone. It was afternoon; dinner was over, the hearth was swept, thefire was heaped up, and the rug was down. He entered the porch quietly, tapped lightly at the door, and stepped into the house. He hoped shewas well. She answered mechanically. He asked after Pete. She repliedvacantly that he had been gone since morning on some fishing business toPeel. It was a commonplace conversation--brief, cold, almost trivial. He spoke softly, and stood in the middle of the floor, swinging his softhat against his leg. She was standing by the fire, with one hand on themantelpiece and her head half aside, looking sideways towards his feet;but she noticed that his eyes looked larger than before, and that hisvoice, though so soft, had a deeper tone. At first she did not rememberto ask him to sit, and when she thought of it she could not do so. Thepoor little words would have been a formal recognition of all that hadhappened so terribly--that she was mistress in that house, and the wifeof Pete. 

IV. 

They were standing so, in a silence hard to break, harder still tokeep up, when Pete himself came back, like a rush of wind, and welcomedPhilip with both hands. 

"Sit, boy, sit, " he cried; "not that one--this aisy one. Mine? Well, if it's mine, it's yours. Not had dinner, have you? Neither have I. Anycold mate left, Kitty? No? Fry us a chop, then, darling. "

Kate had recovered herself by this time, and she went out on thiserrand. While she was away, Pete rattled on like a mill-race--askedabout the travels, laughed about the girls, and roared about Mrs. Gorryand her ghost of Philip. 

"Been buying a Nickey at Peel to-day, Phil, " he said; "good littleboat--a reg'lar clipper. Aw, I'm going to start on the herrings myselfnext sayson sir, and what for shouldn't I? Too many of the Manx onesare giving the fishing the goby. There's life in the ould dog yet, though. Would be, anyway, if them rusty Kays would be doing anything forthe industry. They're building piers enough for the trippers, butnever a breakwater the size of a tooth-brush for the fishermen. That'sreminding me, Phil--the boys are at me to get you to petition theTynwald Court for better harbours. They're losing many a pound by notgetting out all weathers. But if the child doesn't cry, the mother willbe giving it no breast. So we mane to squall till they think in Douglaswe've got spavined wind or population of the heart, or something. Themen are looking to you, Phil. 'That's the boy for us, ' says they. 'He'sstood our friend before, and he'll do it again, ' they're saying. "

Philip promised to draw up the petition, and then Mrs. Gorry came in andlaid the cloth. 

Kate, meanwhile, had been telling herself that she had not done well. Where was the satisfaction she had promised herself on the night ofher wedding-day, when she had seen Philip from the height of a greatrevenge, if she allowed him to think that she also was suffering? Shemust be bright, she must be gay, she must seem to be happy and in lovewith her husband. 

She returned to the hall-parlour with a smoking dish, and a face allsunshine. 

"I'm afraid they're not very good, dear, " she said. 

"Chut!" said Pete; "we're not particular. Phil and I have roughed itbefore to-day. "

She laughed merrily, and, under pretext of giving orders, disappearedagain. But she had not belied the food she had set on the table. Themutton was badly fed, badly killed, badly cut, and, above all, badlycooked. To eat it was an ordeal. Philip tried hard not to let Pete seehow he struggled. Pete fought valiantly to conceal his own efforts. Theperspiration began to break out on their foreheads. Pete stopped in themidst of some wild talk to glance up at Philip. Philip tore away withknife and fork and answered vaguely. Then Pete looked searchinglyaround, rose on tiptoe, went stealthily to the kitchen door, came back, caught up a piece of yellow paper from the sideboard, whipped the chopsinto it from his own plate and then from Philip's, and crammed them intohis jacket pocket. 

"No good hurting anybody's feelings, " said he; and then Kate reappearedsmiling. 

"Finished already?" she said with an elevation of pitch. 

"Ha! ha!" laughed Pete. "Two hungry men, Kate! You'd rather keep us aweek than a fortnight, eh?"

Kate stood over the empty dish with a look of surprise. Pete winkedfuriously at Philip. Philip's eyes wandered about the tablecloth. 

"_She_ isn't knowing much about a hungry man's appetite, is she, Phil?"

"But, " said Kate--"but, " she stammered--"what's become of the bones?"

Pete scratched his chin through his beard. "The bones? Oh, the bones?Aw, no, we're not ateing the bones, at all. " Then with a rush, as hiseyes kindled, "But the dog, you see--coorse we always give the bones tothe dog--Dempster's dead on bones. "

Dempster was lying at the moment full length under the table, snoringaudibly. Mrs. Gorry cleared the cloth, and Kate took up her sewing andturned towards the sideboard. 

"Has any one seen my pattern?" she asked. 

"Pattern?" said Pete, diving into his jacket-pocket. "D'ye saypattern, " he muttered, rummaging at his side. "Is this it?" and outcame the yellow paper, crumpled and greasy, which had gone in with thechops. "Bless me, the stupid a man is now--I took it for a pipe-light. "

Kate's smile vanished, and she fled out to hide her face. Then Petewhispered to Philip, "Let's take a slieu round to the 'Plough. '"

They were leaving the house on that errand when Kate came back to thehall. "Just taking a lil walk, Kirry, " said Pete. "They're telling meit's good wonderful after dinner for a wake digestion of the chest, " andhe coughed repeatedly and smote his resounding breast. 

"Wait a moment and I'll go with you, " said Kate. 

There was no help for it. Kate's shopping took them in the direction ofthe "Plough. " Old Mrs. Beatty, the innkeeper, was at the door as theypassed, and when she saw Pete approaching on the inside of the three, she said aloud--meaning no mischief--"Your bread and cheese and porterare ready, as usual, Capt'n. "

V. 

The man was killing her. To be his spoiled and adored wife, knowingshe was unworthy of his love and tenderness, was not happiness--it wasgrinding misery, bringing death into her soul. If he had blamed her forher incompetence; if he had scolded her for making his home cheerless;nay, if he had beaten her, she could have borne with life, and taken heroutward sufferings for her inward punishment. 

She fell into fits of hysteria, sat whole hours listless, with herfeet on the fender. Pete's conduct exasperated her. As time went on anddeveloped the sweetness of Pete, the man grew more and more distastefulto her, and she broke into fits of shrewishness. Pete hung his head andreproached himself. She wasn't to mind if he said things--he was onlya rough fellow. Then she burst into tears and asked him to forgive her, and he was all cock-a-hoop in a moment, like a dog that is coaxed afterit has been beaten. 

Her sufferings reached a climax--she became conscious that she was aboutto become a mother. This affected her with terrible fears. She wentback to that thought of a possible contingency which had torn her withconflicting feelings on the eve of her marriage. It was impossible tobe sure. The idea might be no more than a morbid fancy, born of herun-happiness, of her secret love for Philip, of her secret repugnancefor Pete (the inadequate, the uncouth, the uncongenial) but neverthelessit possessed her with the force of an overpowering conviction, it grewupon her day by day, it sat on her heart like a nightmare--the childthat was to be born to her was not the child of her husband. 

VI. 

In spite of Pete's invitations, Philip came rarely. He was fullof excuses--work--fresh studies--the Governor--his aunt. Pete said"Coorse, " and "Sartenly, " and "Wouldn't trust, " until Philip began tobe ashamed, and one evening he came, looking stronger than usual, with amore sustaining cheerfulness, and plumped into the house with the words, "I've come at last!"

"To stay the night?" said Pete. 

"Well, yes, " said Philip. 

"That's lucky and unlucky too, for I'm this minute for Peel with two ofthe boys to fetch round my Nickey by the night-tide. But youll stayand keep the wife company, and I'll be back first tide in the morning. You'll be obliged to him, won't you, Kate?" he cried, pitching his voiceover his shoulder; and then, in a whisper, "She's a bit down at whiles, and what wonder, and her so near--but you'll see, you'll see, " and hewinked and nodded knowingly. 

There was no harking back, no sheering off on the score of modestybefore Pete's large faith. Kate looked as if she would cry "Mercy, mercy!" but when she saw the same appeal on Philip's face she was stung. 

Pete went off, and then Kate and Philip sat down to tea. While tealasted it was not hard to fill the silences with commonplaces. After itwas over she brought him a pipe, and they lapsed into difficult pauses. Philip puffed vigorously and tried to look happy. Kate struggled not tolet Philip see that she was ill at ease. Every moment their imaginationtook a new turn. He began to read a book, and while they sat withoutspeaking she thought it was hardly nice of him to treat her withindifference. When he spoke she thought he was behaving with lesspoliteness than before. He went over to the piano and they sang a partsong, "Oh, who will o'er the downs so free?" Their voices went wellenough together, but they broke down. The more they tried to forgetthe past the more they remembered it. He twiddled the backs of hisfingertips over the keyboard; she swung on one foot and held to thecandle-bracket while they talked of Pete. That name seemed to fortifythem against the scouts of passion. Pete was their bulwark. It was theold theme, but played as a tragedy, not as a comedy, now. 

"It is delightful to see you settled in this beautiful home, " he said. 

"_Isn't_ it beautiful?" she answered. 

"You ought to be very happy. "

"Why should I not be happy?" with a little laugh. 

"Why, indeed? A home like a nest and a husband that worships you-----"

She laughed again because she could not speak. Speech was thin gauze, laughter was rolling smoke; so she laughed and laughed. 

"What a fine hearty creature he is!" said Philip. 

"Isn't he?" said Kate. 

"Education and intellect don't always go together. "

"Any wife might love such a husband, " said Kate. 

"So simple, so natural, so unsuspicious-----"

But that was coming to quarters too close, so they fell back on silence. The silence was awful; the power of it was pitiless. If they could havespoken the poorest commonplaces, the spell might have dissolved. Philipthought he would rise, but he could not do so. Kate tried to turn away, but felt herself rooted to the spot. With faces aside, they remainedsome moments where they were, as if a spirit had passed between them. 

Mrs. Gorry came in to lay the supper, and then Kate recovered herself. She got back her power of laughter, and laughed at everything. He wasnot deceived. "She loves me still, " said the voice of his heart. Hehated himself for the thought, but it haunted him with a mercilesspersistence. He remembered the evening of the wedding-day, and theimploring look she gave him on going away with Pete; and he returned tothe idea that she had been married under the compulsion of her father, Cæsar, the avaricious hypocrite. He told himself it would be easy tokindle a new fire on the warm hearth. As she laughed and he looked intoher beautiful eyes and caught the nervous twitch of her mouth, he feltsomething of the old thrill, the old passion, the old unconditioned loveof her who loved him in spite of all, and merely because she must. Butno! Had he spent six months abroad for nothing? He would be strong; hewould be loyal. If need be he would save this woman from herself. 

At last Kate lit a candle and said, "I must show you to your room. "

She talked cheerily going upstairs. On the landing she opened the doorof the room above the hall, and went into it, and drew down the blind. She was still full of good spirits, said perhaps he had no night-shirt, so she had left out one of Pete's, hoped he would find it big enough, and laughed again. He took the candle from her at the threshold, andkissed the hand that had held it. She stood a moment quivering like acolt, then she bounded away; there was the clash of a door somewherebeyond, and Kate was in her own room, kneeling before the bed withher face buried in the counterpane to stifle the sobs that might breakthrough the walls. 

Under all her lightness, in spite of all her laughter, the oldtormenting thought had been with her still. Should she tell him? Couldhe understand? Would he believe? If he realised the gravity of the awfulposition in which she was soon to be placed, would he make an effort toextricate her? And if he did not, would not, could not, should not shehate him for ever after? Then the old simple love, the pure passion, came hack upon her at the sight of his face, at the touch of his hand, at the sound of his voice? Oh, for what might have been--what might havebeen!

Pete's Nickey came into harbour with the morning tide, and the threebreakfasted together. As Kate moved heavily in front of the fire, Petecrowed, cooed, and scattered wise winks round the table. 

"More milk, mammy, " he whimpered, and then he imitated all kinds of babyprattle. 

After breakfast the men smoked, and Kate took up her sewing. Shewas occupying herself with the little labours, so pretty, so full ofdelicate humour and delicious joy, which usually open a new avenue fora woman's tenderness. Philip's eyes fell on her, and she dropped belowinto her lap the tiny piece of white linen she was working on. Petesaw this, stole to the back of her chair, reached over her shoulder, snatched the white thing out of her fingers, held it outstretched inhis ponderous hands, and roared like a smithy bellows. It was a baby'sshirt. 

"Never mind, darling, " he coaxed, as the colour leapt to Kate's face. "Philip must be a sort of a father to the boy some day--a godfather, anyway--so he won't mind seeing his lil shiff. We must be calling himPhilip, too. What do you say, Kirry--Philip, is it agreed?"

VII. 

As her time drew near, the conviction deepened upon her that she couldnot be confined in her husband's house. Being there at such a crisis waslike living in a volcanic land. One false step, one passionate impulse, and the very earth under her feet would split. "I must go home forawhile, Pete, " she said. 

"Coorse you must, " said Pete. "Nobody like the ould angel when a girl'sthat way. "

Pete took her back to her mother's in the gig, driving very slowly, and lifting her up and down as tenderly as if she had been a child. Shebreathed freely when she left Elm Cottage, but when she was settledin her own bedroom at "The Manx Fairy" she realised that she had onlystepped from misery to misery. So many memories lived like ghoststhere--memories of innocent slumbers, and of gleeful awakenings amid thetwittering of birds and the rattling of gravel. The old familiar place, the little room with the poor little window looking out on the orchard, the poor little bed with its pink curtains like a tent, the sweetold blankets, the wash-basin, the press, the blind with the sameold pattern, the sheepskin rug underfoot, the whitewashed scraasoverhead--everything the same, but, O God! how different!

"Let me look at myself in the glass, Nancy, " she said, and Nancy gaveher the handglass which had been cracked the morning after the Melliah. 

She pushed it away peevishly. "What's the use of a thing like that?" shesaid. 

Pete haunted the house day and night. There was no bed for him there, and he was supposed to go home to sleep. But he wandered away in thedarkness over the Curragh to the shore, and in the grey of morning hewas at the door again, bringing the cold breath of the dawn into thehouse with the long whisper round the door ajar. "How's she going onnow?"

The women bundled him out bodily, and then he hung about the roads likea dog disowned. If he heard a sigh from the dairy loft, he sat downagainst the gable and groaned. Grannie tried to comfort him. "Don'tbe taking on so, boy. It'll be all joy soon, " said she, "and you'll behaving the child to shew for it. "

But Pete was bitter and rebellious. "Who's wanting the child anyway?"said he. "It's only herself I'm wanting; and she's laving me; O Lord, she's laving me. God forgive me!" he muttered. "O good God, forgiveme!" he groaned: "It isn't fair, though. Lord knows it isn't fair, " hemumbled hoarsely. 

At last Nancy Joe came out and took him in hand in earnest. 

"Look here, Pete, " she said. "If you're wanting to kill the woman, andmiddling quick too, you'll go on the way you're going. But if you don't, you'll be taking to the road, and you won't be coming back till you'rewanted. "

This settled Pete's restlessness. The fishing had begun early thatseason, and he went off for a night to the herrings. 

Kate waited long, and the women watched her with trembling. "It's a weekor two early, " said one. "The weather's warm, " said another. "The bogheemillish! She's a bit soon, " said Grannie. 

There was less of fear in Kate's own feelings. 

"Do women often die?" she asked. 

"The proportion is small, " said the doctor. 

Half an hour afterwards she spoke again. 

"Does the child sometimes die?"

"Well, I've known it to happen, but only when the mother has had ashock--lost her husband, for example. "

She lay tossing on the bed, wishing for her own death, hoping for thedeath of the unborn child, dreading its coming lest she should hate andloathe it. At last came the child's first cry--that cry out of silencethat had never broken on the air before, but was henceforth to be one ofthe world's voices for laughter and for weeping, for joy and for sorrow, to her who had borne it into life. Then she called to them to show herthe baby, and when they did so, bringing it up with soft cooings andfoolish words, she searched the little wrinkled face with a frightenedlook, then put up her arms to shut out the sight, and cried "Take itaway, " and turned to the wall. Her vague fear was a certainty now; thechild was the child of her sin--she was a bad woman. 

Yet there is no shame, no fear, no horror, but the pleading of anew-born babe can drown its clamour. The child cried again, and thecruel battle of love and dread was won for motherhood. The mother heartawoke and swelled. She had got her baby, at all events. It was all shehad for all she had suffered; but it was enough, and a dear and preciousprize. 

"Are you sure it is well?" she asked. "Quite, quite well? Doesn't itslittle face look as if its mammy had been crying--no?"

"'Deed no, " said Grannie, "but as bonny a baby as ever was born. "

The women were scurrying up and down, giggling on the landings, laughingon the stairs, and saying _hush_ at their own noises as they crept intothe room. In a fretful whimper the child was still crying, and Granniewas telling it, with many wags of the head and in a mighty stern voice, that they were going to have none of its complaining now that it _had_come at last; and Kate Herself, with hands clasped together, was sayingin a soft murmur like a prayer, "God is very good, and the doctor isgood too. God is good to give us doctors. "

"Lie quiet, and I'll come back in an hour or two, " said Dr. Mylechreestfrom half-way through the door. 

"Dear heart alive, what will the father say?" cried Grannie, and thenthe whole place broke into that smile of surprise which comes to everyhouse after the twin angels of Life and Death have brooded long over itsroof-tree, and are gone at length before the face of a little child. 

VIII. 

When Pete came up to the quay in the raw sunshine of early morning, Johnthe Clerk, mounted on a barrel, was selling by auction the night's takeof the boats. 

"I've news for you, Mr. Quilliam, " he cried, as Pete's boat, with halfsail set, dropped down the harbour. Pete brought to, leapt ashore, andwent up to where John, at the end of the jetty, surrounded by a crowd ofbuyers in little spring-carts, was taking bids for the fish. 

"One moment, Capt'n, " he cried, across his outstretched arm, at the endwhereof was a herring with gills still opening and closing. "Ten maiseof this sort for the last lot, well fed, alive and kicking--how much forthem? Five shillings? Thank you--and three, Five and three. It's in ityet, boys--only five and three--and six, thank _you_. It'll do no harmat five and six--six shillings? All done at six--_and six?_ All done atsix and six?" "Seven shillings, " shouted somebody with a voice likea foghorn. "They're Annie the Cadger's, " said John, dropping to theground. "And now, Capt'n Quilliam, we'll go and wet the youngster'shead. "

Pete went up to Sulby like an avalanche, shouting his greetings toeverybody on the way. But when he got near to the "Fairy, " he wiped hissteaming forehead and held his panting breath, and pretended not to haveheard the news. 

"How's the poor girl now?" he said in a meek voice, trying to lookpowerfully miserable, and playing his part splendidly for thirtyseconds. 

Then the women made eyes at each other and looked wondrous knowing, and nodded sideways at Pete, and clucked and chuckled, saying, "Look athim, --_he_ doesn't know anything, does he?" "Coorse not, woman--thesemen creatures are no use for nothing. "

"Out of a man's way, " cried Pete, with a roar, and he made a rush forthe stairs. 

Nancy blocked him at the foot of them with both hands on his shoulders. "You'll be quiet, then, " she whispered. "You were always a rasonableman, Pete, and she's wonderful wake--promise you'll be quiet. "

"TO be like a mouse, " said Pete, and he whipped off his long sea-bootsand crept on tiptoe into the room. 

There she lay with the morning light on her, and a face as white as thequilt that she was plucking with her long fingers. 

"Thank God for a living mother and a living child, " said Pete, in abroken gurgle, and then he drew down the bedclothes a very little, andthere, too, was the child on the pillow of her other arm. 

Then do what he would to be quiet, he could not help but make a shout. 

"He's there! Yes, he is! He is, though! Joy! Joy!"

The women were down on him like a flock of geese. "Out of this, sir, ifyou can't behave better!'

"Excuse me, ladies, " said Pete humbly, "I'm not in the habit of babies. A bit excited, you see, Mistress Nancy, ma'am. Couldn't help putting abull of a roar out, not being used of the like. " Then, turning back tothe bed, "Aw, Kitty, the beauty it is, though! And the big! As big asmy fist already. And the fat! It's as fat as a bluebottle. And thestraight! Well, not so _very_ straight, neither, but the complexion athim now! Give him to me, Kitty I give him to me, the young rascal. Letme have a hould of him, anyway. "

"_Him_, indeed! Listen to the man, " said Nancy. 

"It's a girl, Pete, " said Grannie, lifting the child out of the bed. 

"A girl, is it?" said Pete doubtfully. "Well, " he said, with a wag ofthe head, "thank God for a girl. " Then, with another and more resolutewag, "Yes, thank God for a living mother and a living child, if it is agirl, " and he stretched out his arms to take the baby. 

"Aisy, now, Pete--aisy, " said Grannie, holding it out to him. 

"Is it aisy broke they are, Grannie?" said Pete. A good spirit lookedout of his great boyish face. "Come to your ould daddie, you lilsandpiper. Gough bless me, Kitty, the weight of him, though! Thischild's a quarter of a hundred if he's an ounce. He is, I'll go bail heis. Look at him! Guy heng, Grannie, did ye ever see the like, now! It'sabsolute perfection. Kitty, I couldn't have had a better one if I'dchiced it. Where's that Tom Hommy now? The bleating little billygoat, hewas bragging outrageous about his new baby--saying he wouldn't part withit for two of the best cows in his cow-house. This'll floor him, I'mthinking. What's that you're saying, Mistress Nancy, ma'am? No good fornothing, am I? You were right, Grannie. 'It'll be all joy soon, ' youwere saying, and haven't we the child to show for it? I put on mystocking inside out on Monday, ma'am. 'I'm in luck, ' says I, and so Iwas. Look at that, now! He's shaking his lil fist at his father. He is, though. This child knows me. Aw, you're clever, Nancy, but--no nonsenseat all, Mistress Nancy, ma'am. Nothing will persuade me but this childknows me. "

"Do you hear the man?" said Nancy. "_He_ and _he_, and _he_ and _he!_It's a girl, I'm telling you; a girl--a girl--a girl. "

"Well, well, a girl, then--a girl we'll make it, " said Pete, withdetermined resignation. 

"He's deceaved, " said Grannie. "It was a boy he was wanting, poorfellow!"

But Pete scoffed at the idea. "A boy? Never! No, no--a girl for yourlife. I'm all for girls myself, eh, Kitty? Always was, and now I've gottwo of them. "

The child began to cry, and Grannie took it back and rocked it, facedownwards, across her knees. 

"Goodness me, the voice at him!" said Pete. "It's a skipper he's bornfor--a harbour-master, anyway. "

The child slept, and Grannie put it on the pillow turned lengthwise atKate's side. 

"Quiet as a Jenny Wren, now, " said Pete. "Look at the bogh smiling inhis sleep. Just like a baby mermaid on the egg of a dogfish. But where'sthe ould man at all? Has he seen it? We must have it in the papers. The_Times?_Yes, and the 'Tiser too. 'The beloved wife of Mr. Capt'n PeterQuilliam, of a boy--a girl, ' I mane. Aw, the wonder there'll be allthe island over--everybody getting to know. Newspapers are likewomen--ter'ble bad for keeping sacrets. What'll Philip say? But haven'tyou a toothful of anything, Grannie? Gin for the ladies, Nancy. Goodnessme, the house is handy. What time was it? Wait, don't tell me! It wasfive o'clock this morning, wasn't it? Yes? Gough bless me, I knew it!High water to the very minute--aw, he'll rise in the world, and die atthe top of the tide. How did I know when the child was born, ma'am? Asaisy as aisy. We were lying adrift of Cronk ny Irrey Lhaa, looking upfor daylight by the fisherman's clock. Only light enough to see theblack of your nail, ma'am. All at once I heard a baby's cry on thewaters. 'It's the nameless child of Earey Cushin, ' sings out one of theboys. 'Up with the clout, ' says I. And when we were hauling the netsand down on our knees saying a bit of a prayer, as usual, 'God bless mynew-born child, ' says I, 'and God bless my child's mother, too, ' I says, and God love and protect them always, and keep and presarve myself aswell. '" There was a low moaning from the bed. 

"Air! Give me air! Open the door!" Kate gasped. 

"The room is getting too hot for her, " said Grannie. 

"Come, there's one too many of us here, " said Nancy. "Out of it, " andshe swept Pete from the bedroom with her apron as if he had been a droveof ducks. 

Pete glanced backward from the door, and a cloak that was hanging on theinside of it brushed his face. 

"God bless her!" he said in a low tone. "God bless and reward her forgoing through this for me!"

Then he touched the cloak with his lips and disappeared. A moment laterhis curly black poll came stealing round the door jamb, half-way down, like the head of a big boy. 

"Nancy, " in a whisper, "put the tongs over the cradle; it's a pity totempt the fairies. And, Grannie, I wouldn't lave it alone to go out tothe cow-house--the lil people are shocking bad for changing. "

Kate, with her face to the wall, listened to him with an aching heart. As Pete went down the doctor returned. 

"She's hardly so well, " said the doctor. "Better not let her nurse thechild. Bring it up by hand. It will be best for both. "

So it was arranged that Nancy should be made nurse and go to ElmCottage, and that Mrs. Gorry should come in her place to Sulby. 

Throughout four-and-twenty hours thereafter, Kate tried her utmost toshut her heart to the child. At the end of that time, being left someminutes alone with the little one, she was heard singing to it in asweet, low tone. Nancy paused with the long brush in her hand in thekitchen, and Granny stopped at her knitting in the bar. 

"That's something like, now, " said Nancy. 

"Poor thing, poor Kirry! What wonder if she was a bit out of her head, the bogh, and her not well since her wedding?"

They crept upstairs together at the unaccustomed sounds, and found Pete, whom they had missed, outside the bedroom door, half doubled up andholding his breath to listen. 

"Hush!" said he, less with his tongue than with his mouth, which hepursed out to represent the sound. Then he whispered, "She's filling allthe room with music. Listen! It's as good as fairy music in Glentrammon. And it's the little fairy itself that's 'ticing it out of her. "

Next day Philip came, and nothing would serve for Pete but that heshould go up to see the child. 

"It's only Phil, " he said, through the doorway, dragging Philip intoKate's room after him, for the familiarity that a great joy permitsbreaks down conventions. Kate did not look up, and Philip tried toescape. 

"He's got good news for himself, too" said Pete. "They're to be makinghim Dempster a month to-morrow. "

Then Kate lifted her eyes to Philip's face, and all the glory of successwithered under her gaze. He stumbled downstairs, and hurried away. Therewas the old persistent thought, "She loves me still, " but it was workingnow, in the presence of the child, with how great a difference! When helooked at the little, downy face, a new feeling took possession of him. Her child--hers--that might have been his also! Had his bargain beenworth having? Was any promotion in the world to be set against one throbof Pete's simple joy, one gleam of the auroral radiance that lights upa poor man's home when he is first a father, one moment of divinepartnership in the babe that is fresh from God?

Three weeks later, Pete took his wife home in Cæsar's gig. Everythingwas the same, as when he brought her, save that within the shawls withwhich she was wrapped about the child now lay with its pink eyelidsto the sky, and its fiat white bottle against her breast. It was abeautiful spring morning, and the young sunlight was on the sallies ofthe Curragh and the gold of the roadside gorse. Pete was as silly asa boy, and he chirped and croaked all the way home like every bird andbeast of heaven and earth. When they got to Elm Cottage, he lifted hiswife down as tenderly as if she had been the babe she had in her arms. He was strong and she was light, and he half helped, half carried her tothe porch door. Nancy was there to take the child out of her hands, and, as she did so, Pete, back at the horse's head, cried, "That's thelast bit of furniture the house was waiting for, Nancy. What's a housewithout a child? Just a room without a clock. "

"Clock, indeed, " said Nancy; "clocks are stopping, but this one's forgoing like a mill. "

"Don't be tempting the Nightman, Nancy, " cried Pete; but he was full ofchildlike delight. 

Kate stepped inside. The fire burned in the hall parlour, the fire-ironsshone like glass, there were sprigs of fuchsia-bud in the ornaments onthe chimneypiece--everything was warm and cheerful and homelike. She satdown without taking off her hat. "Why can't I be quiet and happy?" shethought. "Why can't I make myself love him and forget?"

But she was like one who traversed a desert under the sea--a vastsubmerged Sahara. Over her head was all her life, with all her loveand all her happiness, and the things around her were only the ghostlyshadows cast by them. 

IX. 

The more Kate realised that she was in the position of a bad woman, themore she struggled to be a good one. She flew to religion as a refuge. There was no belief in her religion, no faith, no creed, no mysticaltransports, but only fear, and shame, and contrition. It was ferventenough, nevertheless. On Sunday morning she went to The Christians, onSunday afternoon to church, on Sunday evening to the Wesleyan chapel, and on Wednesday night to the mission-house of the Primitives. Hercatholicity did not please her father. He looked into her quiveringface, and asked if she had broken any commandment in secret. She turnedpale, and answered "No. "

Pete followed her wherever she went, and, seeing this, some of the basersort among the religious people began to follow him. They abused eachother badly in their efforts to lay hold of his money-bags. "You'llnever go over to yonder lot, " said one. "They're holding to election--asoul-destroying doctrine. " "A respectable man can't join himself toCowley's gang, " said another. "They're denying original sin, and aren'ta ha'p'orth better than infidels. "

Pete took the measure of them all, down to the watch-pockets of theirwaistcoats. 

"You remind me, " said he, "when you're a-gate on your doctrines, ofthe Kaffirs out at Kimberley. If one of them found an ould hat in thecompound that some white man had thrown away, they'd light a camp-fireafter dark, and hould a reg'lar Tynwald Coort on it. There they'd besquatting round on their haunches, with nothing to be seen of them buttheir eyes and their teeth, and there'd be as many questions as theCatechism. '_Who_ found it!' says one. '_Where_ did he find it?' saysanother. 'If _he_ hadn't found it, who else would have found it?' That'show they'd be going till two in the morning, and the fire dead out, and the lot of them squealing away same as monkeys in the dark. And allabout an ould hat with a hole in it, not worth a ha'penny piece. "

"Blasphemy, " they cried. "But still and for all, you give to the widowand lend to the Lord--you practise the religion you don't believe in, Cap'n Quilliam. "

"There's a pair of us, then. " said Pete, "for you believe in thereligion you don't practise. "

But Cæsar got Pete at last, in spite of his scepticism. The time camefor the annual camp-meeting. Kate went off to it, and Pete followedlike a big dog at her heels. The company assembled at Sulby Bridge, andmarched through the village to a revival chorus. They stopped at a fieldof Cæsar's in the glen--it was last year's Melliah field--and Cæsarmounted a cart which had been left there to serve as a pulpit. Then theysang again, and, breaking up into many companies, went off into littlecircles that were like gorse rings on the mountains. After that theyreassembled to the strains of another chorus, and gathered afresh aboutthe cart for Cæsar's sermon. 

It dealt with the duty of sinless perfection. There were evil men andhappy sinners in the island these days, who were telling them it was notgood to be faultless in this life, because virtue begot pride, and pridewas a deadly sin. There were others who were saying that because a manmust repent in order to be saved, to repent he had to sin. Doctrines ofthe devil--don't listen to them. Could a man in the household of faithlive one second without committing sin? Of course he could. One minute?Certainly. One hour? No doubt of it. Then, if a man could live one hourwithout sin, he could live one day, one week, one month, one year--nay, a whole lifetime. 

In getting thus far, Cæsar had worked himself into a perspiration, andhe took off his coat, hung it over the cartwheel, and went on in hisshirt-sleeves. Let them make no excuses for backsliders. It was a trickof the devil to deal with you, and forget to pay strap (the price). Itwas an old rule and a good one that, if any were guilty of the sins ofthe flesh, they should be openly punished in this world, that their sinsmight not be counted against them in the day of the Lord. 

Cæsar threw off his waistcoat and finished with a passionateexhortation, calling upon his hearers to deliver themselves of secretsins. If oratory is to be judged of by its effects, Cæsar's sermon wasa great oration. It began amid the silence of his own followers, and the_tschts_ and _pshaws_ of a little group of his enemies, who lounged onthe outside of the crowd to cast ridicule on the "swaddler" and the"publican preacher. " But it ended amid loud exclamations of praise andsupplications from all his hearers, sighing and groaning, and the bodilyclutching of one another by the arm in paroxysms of fear and rapture. 

When Cæsar's voice died down like a wave of the sea, somebody leapt upfrom the grass to pray. And before the first prayer had ended, a secondwas begun. Meantime the penitents had begun to move inward through thethrong, and they fell weeping and moaning on their knees about the cart. Kate was among them, and, when she took her place, Pete still held byher side A strong shuddering passed over her shoulders, and her wet eyeswere on the grass. Pete took her hand, and feeling how it trembled, hisown eyes also filled. Above their heads Cæsar was towering with fieryeyes and face aflame. In a momentary pause between two prayers, hetossed his voice up in a hymn. The people joined him at the second bar, and then the wailing of the penitents was drowned in a general shout ofthe revival tune--

 "If some poor wandering child of Thine Have spurned to-day the voice divine, Now, Lord, the gracious work begin, Let him no more lie down in sin. "

Kate sobbed aloud--poor vessel of human passions tossed about, tormentedby the fire that was consuming her. 

As the penitents grew calmer, they rose one by one to give theirexperience of Satan and salvation. At length Cæsar seized hisopportunity and said, "And now Brother Quilliam will give us hisexperience. "

Pete rose from Kate's side with tearful eyes amid a babel of jubilation, most of it facetious. "Be of good cheer, Peter, be not afraid. "

"I've not much to tell, " said Pete--"only a story of backsliding. Before I earned enough to carry me up country, I worked a month at CapeTown with the boats. My master was a pious old Dutchman getting the nameof Jan. One Saturday night a big ship lost her anchor outside, and onSunday morning forty pounds was offered for finding it. All the boatmenwent out except Jan. 'Six days shalt thou labour, ' says he, 'but theseventh is the Sabbath. '"

Pete's address was here punctuated by loud cries of thanksgiving. 

"All day long he was seeing the boats beating up the bay, so, to keepout of temptation, he was going up to the bedroom and pulling the blindand getting down on his knees and wrastling like mad. And something outof heaven was saying to him, 'It's the Lord's day, Jannie; they'll notget a ha'p'orth. ' Neither did they; but when Jan's watch said twelveo'clock midnight the pair of us were going off like rockets. Well, wehadn't been ten minutes on the water before our grapplings had hould ofthat anchor. "

There were loud cries of "Glory!"

"Jan was shouting, 'The Lord has put us atop of it as straight as thelid of a taypot!'"

Great cries of "Hallelujah!"

"But when we came ashore we found Jan's watch was twenty minutes fast, and that was the end of the ould man's religion. "

That day the word went round that both Pete and Kate had been converted. Their names were entered in Class, and they received their quarterlytickets. 

X. 

Next morning Kate set out to church for her churching. Her householdduties had lost their interest by this time, and she left Nancy to cookthe dinner. Pete had volunteered to take charge of the child. This hebegan to do by establishing himself with his pipe in an armchair by thecradle, and looking steadfastly down into it until the little one awoke. Then he rocked it, rummaged his memory for a nursery song to quiet it, and smoked and sang together. 

 "A frog he would a-wooing go, _Kitty alone, Kitty alone_, (Puff, puff. ) A wonderful likely sort of a beau, _Kitty alone and I!_" (_Puff, puff, puff_. )

The sun was shining in at the doorway, and a man's shadow fell acrossthe cradle-head. It was Philip. Pete put his mouth out into the form ofan unspoken "Hush, " and Philip sat down in silence, while Pete went onwith his smoke and his song. 

 "But when her husband rat came home, _Kitty alone, Kitty alone_, Pray who's been here since I've been gone? _Kitty alone and I!_" _(Puff, Puff)_

Pete had got to the middle of the verse about "the worthy gentleman, "when the low whine in the cradle lengthened to a long breath andstopped. 

"Gone off at last, God bless it, " said Pete. "And how's yourself, Philip? And how goes the petition?"

With his head on his hand, Philip was gazing absently into the fire, andhe did not hear. 

"How goes the petition?" said Pete. 

"It was that I came to speak of, " said Philip. "Sorry to say it has hadno effect but a bad one. It has only drawn attention to the fact thatManx fishermen pay no harbour dues. "

"And right too, " said Pete. "The harbours are our fathers' harbours, andwere freed to us forty years ago. "

"Nevertheless, " said Philip, "the dues are to be demanded. The Governorhas issued an order. "

"Then we'll rise against it--every fisherman in the island, " said Pete. "And when they're making you Dempster, you'll back us up in the TynwaldCoort. "

"Take care, Pete, take care, " said Philip. 

Then Kate came in from church, and Pete welcomed her with a shout. Philip rose and bowed in silence. The marks of the prayers of the weekwere on her face, but they had brought her no comfort. She had beenconstantly promising herself consolation from religion, but every freshexercise of devotion had seemed to tear open the wound from which shebled to death. 

She removed her cloak and stepped to the cradle. The child was sleepingpeacefully, but she convinced herself that it must be unwell. Her ownhands were cold and moist, and when she touched the child she thoughtits skin was clammy. Presently her hands became hot and dry, and whenshe touched the child again she thought its forehead was feverish. 

"I'm sure she's ill, " she said. 

"Chut! love, " said Pete; "no more ill than I am. "

But, to calm her fears, he went off for the doctor. The doctor was awayin the country, and was not likely to be back for hours. Kate's fearsincreased. Every time she looked at the child she applied to it thesymptoms of her own condition. 

"My child is dying--I'm sure it is, " she cried. 

"Nonsense, darling, " said Pete. "Only an hour ago it was looking up asimperent as a tomtit. "

At last a new terror seized her, and she cried, "My child is dyingunbaptized. "

"Well, we'll soon mend that, love, " said Pete. "I'll be going off forthe parson. " And he caught up his hat and went out. 

He called on Parson Quiggin, who promised to follow immediately. Then hewent on to Sulby to fetch Cæsar and Grannie and some others, having nofear for the child's life, but some hope of banishing Kate's melancholyby the merriment of a christening feast. 

Meanwhile, Philip and Kate were alone with the little one, save in theintervals of Nancy's coming and going between the hall and the kitchen. She was restless, and full of expectation, starting at every sound andevery step. He could see that she had gone whole nights without sleep, and was passing through an existence that was burning itself away. 

Do what he would to explain her sufferings as the common results ofchildbirth, he could not help resolving them in the old flatteringsolution. She was paying the penalty of having married the wrong man. And she was to blame. Whatever the compulsion put upon her, she ought tohave withstood it. There was no situation in life from which it wasnot possible to escape. Had _he_ not found a way out of a situationessentially the same? Thus a certain high pride in his own conduct tookpossession of him even in the presence of Kate's pain. 

But his tenderness fought with his self-righteousness. He looked at herpiteous face and his strength almost ebbed away. She looked up into hiseyes and affectionate pity almost overwhelmed him. Once or twice sheseemed about to say something, but she did not speak, and he saidlittle. Yet it wanted all his resolution not to take her in his arms andcomfort her, not to mingle his tears with hers, not to tell her of sixmonths spent in vain in the effort to wipe her out of his heart, notto whisper of cheerless days and of nights made desolate with therepetition of her name. But no, he would be stronger than that. It wasnot yet too late to walk the path of honour. He would stand no longerbetween husband and wife. 

Pete came back, bringing Grannie and Cæsar. The parson arrived soonafter them. Kate was sitting with the child in her lap, and broodingover it like a bird above its nest. The child was still sleeping thesleep of health and innocence, but the mother's eyes were wild. 

"Bogh, bogh!" said Grannie, and she kissed her daughter. Kate made noresponse. Nancy Joe grew red about the eyelids and began to blow hernose. 

"Here's the prazon, darling, " whispered Pete, and Kate rose to her feet. The company rose with her, and stood in a half-circle before the fire. It was now between daylight and dark, and the firelight flashed in theirfaces. 

"Are the godfather and godmothers present?" the parson asked. 

"Mr. Christian will stand godfather, parzon; and Nancy and Grannie willbe godmothers. "

Nancy took the child out of Kate's arms, and the service for privatebaptism began with the tremendous words, "Dearly beloved, forasmuch asall men are conceived and born in si----"

The parson stopped. Kate had staggered and almost fallen. Pete put hisarm around her to keep her up, and then the service went on. 

Presently the parson turned to Philip with a softening voice and aninclination of the head. 

"Dost thou, in the name of this child, renounce the devil and all hisworks, the vain pomp and glory of the world, with all covetous desiresof 'the same, and the carnal desires of the flesh, so that thou wilt notfollow nor be led by them?"

And Philip answered, in a firm, low voice, "I renounce them all. "

The parson took the child from Nancy. "Name this child. "

Nancy looked at Kate, but Kate, who was breathing violently, gave nosign. 

"Kate, " whispered Pete; "Kate, of coorse. "

"Katherine, " said Nancy, and in that name the child was baptized. 

Dr. Mylechreest came in as the service ended. Grannie held littleKatherine up to him, and he controlled his face and looked at her. 

"There's not much amiss with the child, " he said. 

"I knew it, " shouted Pete. 

"But perhaps the mother is a little weak and nervous, " he added quietly. 

"Coorse she is, the bogh, " cried Pete. 

"Let her see more company, " said the doctor. 

"She shall, " said Pete. 

"If that doesn't do, send her away for awhile. "

"I will. "

"Fresh scenes, fresh society; out of the island, by preference. "

"I'm willing. "

"She'll come back another woman. "

"I'll put up with the same one, " said Pete; and, while the companylaughed, he flung open the door, and cried "Come in!" and half a dozenmen who had been waiting outside trooped into the hall. They enteredwith shy looks because of the presence of great people. 

"Now for a pull of jough, Nancy, " cried Pete. 

"Not too much excitement either, " said the doctor, and with that warninghe departed. The parson went with him. Philip had slipped out first, unawares to anybody. Grannie carried little Katherine to the kitchen, and bathed her before the fire. Kate was propped up with pillows in thearmchair in the corner. Then Nancy brought the ale, and Pete welcomed itwith a shout. Cæsar looked alarmed and rose to go. 

"The drink's your own, sir, " said Pete; "stop and taste it. "

But Cæsar couldn't stay; it would scarcely be proper. 

"You don't christen your first granddaughter every day, " said Pete. "Enjoy yourself while you're alive, sir; you'll be a long time dead. "

Cæsar disappeared, but the rest of the company took Pete's counsel, andbegan to make themselves comfortable. 

"The last christening I was at was yesterday, " said John the Clerk. "Itwas Christian Killip's little one, before she was married, and it tookthe water same as any other child. "

"The last christening I was at was my own, " said Black Tom, "when I wasmade an in inheriter, but I've never inherited yet. "

"That's truth enough, " said an asthmatic voice from the backstairs. 

"Well, the last christening I was at was at Kimberley, " said Pete, "and I was the parzon myself that day. Yes, though, Parzon Pete. Andgodfather and godmother as well, and the baby was Peter Quilliam, too. Aw, it was no laughing matter at all. There's always a truck of womenabout a compound, hanging on to the boys like burrs. Dirty littletrousses of a rule, but human creatures for all. One of them had a childby somebody, and then she came to die, and couldn't take rest because ithadn't been christened. There wasn't a pazon for fifty miles, anywhere, and it was night-time, too, and the woman was stretched by the camp-fireand sinking. 'What's to be done?' says the men. _I'll_ do it, ' says I, and I did. One of the fellows got a breakfast can of water out of theriver, and I dipped my hand in it. 'What's the name, ' says I; but thepoor soul was too far gone for spaking. So I gave the child my own name, though I didn't know the mother from Noah's aunt, and the big chapsstanding round bareheaded began to blubber like babies. 'I baptize thee, Peter Quilliam, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of theHoly Ghost, Amen. ' Then the girl died happy and aisy, and what forshouldn't she? The words were the same, and the water was the same, andif the hand wasn't as clane as usual, maybe Him that's above wouldn'tbother about the diff'rance. "

Kate got up with a flush on her cheeks. The room had become too close. Pete helped her into the parlour, where a bright fire was burning, thenpropped and wrapped her up afresh, and, at her own entreaty, returned tohis guests. The company had increased by this time, and there were womenand girls among them. They went on to sing and to playt and at last todance. 

Kate heard them. Through the closed door between the hall and theparlour their merriment came to her. At intervals Pete put in his head, brimming over with laughter, and cried in a loud whisper, "Did you hearthat, Kate? It's rich!"

At length Philip came, too, with his hat in one hand and a cardboard boxin the other. "The godfather's present to little Katherine, " he said. 

Kate opened the lid, and drew out a child's hood in scarlet plush. 

"You are very good, " she said vacantly. 

"Don't let us talk of goodness, " he answered; and he turned to go. 

"Wait, " she faltered. "I have something to say to you. Shut the door. "

XI. 

Philip turned pale. "What is it?" he asked. 

She tried to speak, but at first she could not. 

"Are you unhappy, Kate?" he faltered. 

"Can't you see?" she answered. 

He sat down by the fire, and leaned his face on his hands. "Yes, we haveboth suffered, " he said, in a low tone. 

"Why did you let me marry him?"

Philip raised his head. "How could I have hindered you?"

"How? Do you ask me how?" She spoke with some bitterness, but heanswered quietly. 

"I tried, Kate, but I could do nothing. You seemed determined. Do whatI would to prevent, to delay, to stop your marriage altogether, the moreyou hastened and hurried it. Then I thought to myself, Well, perhapsit is best. She is trying to forget and forgive, and begin again. Whatright have I to stand in her way? Haven't I wronged her enough already?A good man offers her his love, and she is taking it. Let her do so, ifshe can, God help her! I may suffer, but I am nothing to her now. Let mego my way. "

She put her arms on the table, and hid her face in them. "Oh, I cannotbear it, " she said. 

He rose to his feet slowly. "If it is my presence here that hurts you, Kate, I will go away. It has been but a painful pleasure to come, andI have been forced to take it. You will acquit me of coming of my ownchoice, Kate. But I will not torment you. I will go away, and never comeagain. "

She lifted her face, and said in a passionate whisper, "Take me withyou. "

He shook his head. "That's impossible, Kate. You are married now. Yourhusband loves you dearly. He is a better man than I am, a thousand, thousand times. "

"Do you think I don't know what he is?" she cried, throwing herselfback. "That's why I can't live with him. It's killing me. I tell you Ican't bear it, " she cried, rising to her feet. "Love me! Haven't I triedto make myself love _him_. Haven't I tried to be a good wife! I can't--Ican't. He never speaks but he torments me. Nothing can happen but itcuts me through and through. I can't live in this house. The walls arecrushing me, the ceiling is falling on me, the air is stifling me. Itell you I shall die if you do not take me out of it. Take me, Philip, take me, take me!"

She caught him by the arm imploringly, but he only dropped his head downbetween both hands, saying in a deep thick voice, "Hush, Kate, hush! Icannot and I will not. You are mad to think of it. "

Then she sank down into the chair again, breathless and inert, andsobbing deep, low sobs. The sound of dancing came from the hall, withcries of "Hooch!" and the voice of Pete shouting--

 "Hit the floor with heel and toe 'Till heaven help the boords below. "

"Yes, I am mad, or soon will be, " she said in a hard way. "I thought ofthat this morning when I crossed the river coming home from church. Itwould soon be over _there_, I thought. No more trouble, no more dreams, no more waking in the night to hear the breathing of the one beside me, and the voice out of the darkness crying----"

"Kate, what are you saying?" interrupted Philip. 

"Oh, you needn't think I'm a bad woman because I ask you take me awayfrom my husband. If I were that, I could brazen it out perhaps, and liveon here, and pretend to forget; many a woman does, they say. And I'mnot afraid that he will ever find me out either. I have only to close mylips, and he will never know. But _I_ shall know, Philip Christian, " shesaid, with a defiant look into his eyes as he raised them. 

Her reproaches hurt him less than her piteous entreaties, and in amoment she was sobbing again. "Oh, what can God do but let me die! Ithought He would when the child came; but He did not, and then--am I awicked woman, after all?--I prayed that He would take my innocent baby, anyway. "

But she dashed the tears away in anger at her weakness, and said, "I'mnot a bad woman, Philip Christian; and that's why I won't live here anylonger. There is something you have never guessed, and I have never toldyou; but I must tell you now, for I can keep my secret no longer. "

He raised his head with a noise in his ears that was like the flappingof wings in the dark. 

"Your secret, Kate?"

"How happy I was, " she said. "Perhaps I was to blame--I loved you so, and was so fearful of losing you. Perhaps you thought of all that hadpassed between us as something that would go back and back as time wenton and on. But it has been coming the other way ever since. Yes, and aslong as I live and as long as the child lives----"

Her voice quivered like the string of a bow and stopped. He rose to hisfeet. 

"The child, Kate? Did you say the child?"

She did not answer at once, and then she muttered, with her head down, "Didn't I tell you there was something you had never guessed?"

"And is it that?" he said in a fearful whisper. 

"Yes. "

"You are sure? You are not deceiving yourself? This is not hysteria?"

"No. "

"You mean that the child----"

"Yes. "

His questions had come in gasps, like short breakers out of a risingsea; her answers had fallen like the minute-gun above it. Then, in thesilence, Pete's voice came through the wall. He was singing a rough oldditty--

 "It was to Covent Gardens I chanced for to go, To see some of the prettiest flowers which in the gardens grow. "

Nancy came in with a scuttle of coals. "The lil one's asleep, " she said, going down on her knees at the fire. She had left the door ajar, andPete's song was rolling into the room--

 "The first was lovely Nancy, so delicate and fair, The other was a vargin, and she did laurels wear. "

"Grannie bathed her, and she's like a lil angel in the cot there, " saidNancy. "And, 'Dear heart alive, Grannie, ' says I, ' the straight she'slike her father when she's sleeping. '"

Nancy brushed the hearth and went off. As she closed the door, Pete'svoice ebbed out. 

Philip's lips trembled, his eyes wandered over the floor, he grew verypale, he tried to speak and could not. All his self-pride was overthrownin a moment The honour in which he had tried to stand erect as in asuit of armour was stripped away. Unwittingly he had been laying upan account with Nature. He had forgotten that a sin has consequences. Nature did not forget. She had kept her own reckoning. He had struggledto believe that after all he was a moral man, a free man; but Nature wasa sterner moralist; she had chained him to the past, she had held him tohimself. 

He was still by the fire with his head down. "Did you know this beforeyou were married to Pete?" he asked, without looking up. 

"Hadn't I wronged him enough without that?" she answered. 

"But did you think of it as something that might perhaps occur?"

"And if I did, what then?"

"If you had told me, Kate, nothing and nobody should have come betweenus--no, " he said in a decisive voice, "not Pete nor all the world. "

"And wasn't it your own duty to remember? Was it for me to come to youand say, 'Philip, something may happen, I am frightened. '"

Was this the compulsion that had driven her into marriage with the wrongman? Was it all hysteria? Could she be sure? In any case she could notthink this awful thought and continue to live with her husband. 

"You are right, " he said, with his head still down. "You cannot livehere any longer. This life of deception must end. "

"Then you will take me away, Philip?"

"I must, God forgive me, I must. I thought it would be sin. But _that_was long ago. It will be punishment. If I had known before--and I havebeen coming here time and again--looking on his happiness--but if I hadonce dreamt--and then only an hour ago--the oath at its baptism--O God!"

Her tears were flowing again, but a sort of serenity had fallen on hernow. 

"Forgive me, " she whispered. "I tried to keep it to myself------"

"You could not keep it; you ought never to have kept it so long; thefinger of God Himself ought to have burnt it out of you. "

He spoke harshly, and she felt pain; but there was a secret joy as well. 

"I am ruining you, Philip, " she said, leaning over him. 

"We are both drifting to ruin, Katherine, " he answered hoarsely. He wasan abandoned hulk, with anchorage gone and no hand at the helm--broken, blind, rolling to destruction. 

"I can offer you nothing, Kate, nothing but a hidden life, a life in thedark. If you come to me you will leave a husband who worships you forone to whom your life can never be joined. You will exchange a life ofrespect by the side of a good man for a life of humiliation, a life ofshame. How can it be otherwise now? It is too late, too late!"

"Don't think of that, Philip. If you love me there can be no humiliationand no shame for me in anything. I love you, dear, I cannot help butlove you. Only love me a little, Philip, just a little, dearest, and Iwill never care--no, I will never, never care whatever happens. "

Her passionate devotion swept down all his scruples. His throatthickened, his eyes grew dim. She put one arm tenderly on his shoulder. 

"I will follow you wherever you must go, " she said. "You are my realhusband, Philip, and always have been. We will love one another, andthat will make up for everything. There is nothing I will not do to makeyou forget. If you must go away--far away--no matter where--I will gowith you--and the child as well--and if we must be poor, I'll work withyou. "

But he did not seem to hear her as he crouched with buried face by thefire. And, in the silence, Pete's muffled voice came again through thewall, singing his rugged ditty--

 "I'm not engaged to any young man, I solemnly do swear, For I mane to be a vargin and still the laurels wear. "

Unconsciously their hands touched and their fingers intertwined. 

"It will break his heart, " he muttered. 

She only grasped his hand the closer, and crouched beside him. They werelike two guilty souls at the altar steps, listening to the cheerful bellthat swings in the tower for the happy world outside. 

The door opened with a bang, and Pete rolled in, heaving with laughter. 

"Did you think it was an earth wake, Philip?" he shouted, "or ablackbird a bit tipsy, eh? Bless me, man, it's good of you, though, sitting up in the chimney there same as a good ould jackdaw, keepingthe poor wife company when her selfish ould husband is flirting histail like a stonechat. The company's going now, Kitty. Will they saygood-night to you? No? Have it as you like, bogh. You're looking tired, anyway. Dempster, the boys are asking when the ceremony is coming off, and will you come home to Ramsey that night? But, sakes alive, man, youreye is splashed with blood as bad as the egg of a robin. "

In his suffering and degradation, Philip felt as if he wished the earthto open and swallow him. 

"Bloodshot, is it?" he said. "It's nothing. The ceremony? I'm to takethe oath to-morrow at three o'clock at the Special Council in Douglas. Yes, I'll come back to Ballure for the night?"

"Driving, eh?"

"Yes. "

"Six o'clock, maybe?"

"Perhaps seven to eight. "

"That's all right. Mortal inquisitive the boys are, though. It's in thebreed of these Manx ones, you know. Laxey way, now?"

"I'll drive by St. John's, " said Philip. 

With a look of wondrous wisdom, and a knowing wink at Kate acrossPhilip's back, Pete went out. Then there was much talking in low tonesin the hall, and on the paths outside the house. 

Philip understood what it meant. He glanced back at the door, leanedover to Kate, and said in a whisper, without looking into her eyes--

"The carriage shall come at half-past seven. It will stand for a momentin the Parsonage Lane, and then drive back to Douglas by way of Laxey. "

His face was broken and ugly with shame and humiliation. As she sawthis she thought of her confession, and it seemed odious to her now; butthere was an immense relief in the feeling that the crisis was over. 

Pete was shouting at the porch, "Good-night, all! Goodnight!"

"Good-night!" came back in many voices. 

Grannie came in muffled up to the throat. "However am I to get back toSulby, and your father gone these two hours?" she said. 

"Not him, " said Pete, coming behind with one eye screwed up and afinger to his nose. "The ould man's been on the back-stairs all night, listening and watching wonderful. His bark's tremenjous, but his biteisn't worth mentioning. "

And then a plaintive voice came from the hall, saying, "Are you _never_coming home, mother? I'm worn out waiting for you. "

A little patch of youth had blossomed in Grannie since the baby came. 

"Good-night, Pete, " she cried from the gate, "and many happy returns ofthe christening-day. "

"One was enough for yourself, mother, " said Cæsar, and then his voicewent rumbling down the street. 

Philip had come out into the hall. "You're time enough yet, " said Pete. "A glass first? No? I've sent over to the 'Mitre' for your mare. Thereshe is; that's her foot on the path. I must be seeing you off, anyway. Where's that lantern, at all?"

They stepped out. Pete held the light while Philip mounted, and then heguided him, under the deep shadow of the old tree, to the road. 

"Fine night for a ride, Phil. Listen! That's the churning of thenightjar going up to Ballure glen. Well, good-night! Good-night, and Godbless you, old fellow!"

Kate inside heard the deadened sound of Philip's "Goodnight, " the crunchof the mare's hoofs on the gravel and the clink of the bit in her teeth. Then the porch door closed with a hollow vibration like that of a vault, the chain rattled across it, and Pete was back in the room. 

"_What_ a night we've had of it! And now to bed. "

XII. 

Kate was up early the next morning, but Pete was stirring before her. Assoon as he had heard the news of Philip's appointment he had organiseda drum and brass band to honour the day of the ceremony. The brass hadbeen borrowed from Laxey, but the drum had been bought by Pete. 

"Let's have a good sizable drum, " said he; "something with a voice init, not a bit of a toot, going off with a pop like bladder-wrack. "

The parchment was three feet across, the steel rings round it were likethe hoops of a dog-cart, and the black drumsticks, according to Pete, were like the bullet heads of two niggers. Jonaique Jelly played theclarionet, and John the Widow played the trombone, but the drum was theleading instrument. Pete himself played it. He pounded it, boomed it, thundered it. While he did so, his eyes blazed with rapture. A bigheroic soul spoke out of the drum for Pete. With the strap over hisshoulders, he did not trouble much about the tune. When the heartLeapt inside his breast, down came the nigger heads on to the mightyprotuberance in front of it; and surely that was the end and aim of allmusic. 

The band practised in the cabin which Pete had set up for a summer-housein the middle of his garden. They met at daybreak that morning for thelast of their rehearsals. And, being up before their morning meal, theywere constrained to smoke and drink as well as play. This they did outof a single pipe and a single pot, which each took up from the table inturn as it fell to his part to have a few bars' rest. 

While their muffled melody came to the house through the wooden wallsand the dense smoke, Kate was cooking breakfast. She did everythingcarefully, for she was calmer than usual, and felt relieved of the loadthat had oppressed her. But once she leaned her head on the mantelshelfwhile stooping over the frying-pan, and looked vacantly into the fire;and once she raised herself up from the table-cloth at the sound of thedrum, and pressed her hand hard on her brow. 

The child awoke in the bedroom above and cried. Nancy Joe wentflip-flapping upstairs, and brought her down with much clucking andcackling. Kate took the child and fed her from a feeding-bottle whichhad been warming on the oven top. She was very tender with the littleone, kissing all its extremities in the way that women have, worryingits legs, and putting its feet into her mouth. 

Pete came in, hot and perspiring, and Kate handed the child back toNancy. 

"Hould hard, " cried Pete; "don't take her off yet. Give me a hould ofher, the lil rogue. My sailor! What a child it is, though! Look at that, now. She's got a grip of my thumb. What a fist, to be sure! It's lyingin my hand like a meg. Did you stick a piece of dough on the wallat your last baking, Nancy? Just as well to keep the evil eye off. Coo--oo--oo! She's going it reg'lar, same as the tide of a summer's day. By jing, Kitty, I didn't think there was so much fun in babies. "

Kate, seated at the table, was pouring out the tea, and a sudden impulseseized her. 

"That's the way, " she said. "First the wife is everything; but the childcomes, and then good-bye to the mother who brought it. "

"No, by gough!" said Pete. "The child is eighteen carat goold for themother's sake, but the mother is di'monds for sake of the child. If Ilost that little one, Kitty, it would be like losing the half of you. "

"Losing, indeed!" said Nancy. "Who's talking about losing? Does she looklike it, bless her lil heart!"

"Take her into the kitchen, Nancy, " said Kate. 

"Going to have a rare do to-day, " said Pete, over a mouthful. "I'm offfor Douglas, to see Philip made Dempster. Coming home with himself byway of St. John's. It's all arranged, woman. Boys to meet the carriageby Kirk Christ Lezayre at seven o'clock smart. Then out I'm getting, laying hould of the drum, the band is striking up, and we're bringinghim into Ramsey triumphant. Oh, we'll be doing it grand, " said Pete, blowing over the rim of his saucer. "John the Clerk is tremenjous on thetrombones, and there's no bating Jonaique with the clar'net--the man ismusic to his little backbone. The town will be coming out too, and thefishermen shouting like one man. We're bound to let the Governor see wemane it. A friend's a friend, say I, and we're for bucking up for theman that's bucking up for us. And when he goes to the Tynwald Coortthere, it'll be lockjaw and the measles with some of them. If theould Governor's got a tongue like a file, Philip's got a tongue like ascythe--he'll mow them down. 'No harbour-dues, ' says he, 'till we've araisonable hope of harbour improvements. Build your embankments for yourtrippers in Douglas if you like, but don't ask the fisher-, men to payfor them. '"

Pete wiped his mouth and charged his pipe. "It'll be a rare ould dust, but we're not thinking of ourselves only, though. Aw, no, no. If therewasn't nothing doing we would be giving him a little tune for all, coming home Dempster. "

Pete lit up. "My sailor! It'll be a proud man I'll be this day, Kitty. Didn't I always say it? 'He'll be the first Manxman living, ' says Itimes and times, and he's not going to de-ceave me neither. "

Kate was in fear lest Pete should look up into her face. Catching sightof a rent in the cloth of his coat, she whipped out her needle and beganto stitch it up, bending closely over it. 

"What an eye a woman's got now, " said Pete. "That was the steel ofthe drum ragging me sideways when I was a bit excited. Bless me, Kitty, there won't be a rag left at me when I get through this everin'. They'reter'ble on clothes is drums. "

He was puffing the smoke through her hair as she knelt below him. "Well, he deserves it all. My sakes, the years I've known him! Him and me havebeen same as brothers. Yes, have we, ever since I was a slip of a boyin jackets, and we went nesting on Maughold Head together. And gettingmarried hasn't been making no difference. When a man marries he shortenssail usually, and pitches out some ballast, but not me at all. You'retaking a chill, Kitty. No? Shuddering any way. Chut! This dress is likepaper; you should be having warmer things under it. Don't be going outto-day, darling, but to-night, about twenty-five minutes better thanseven, just open the door and listen. We'll be agate of it then likemad, and when you're hearing the drum booming you'll be saying toyourself, 'Pete's there, and going it for all he knows. '"

"Oh, Pete, Pete!" cried Kate, and she dropped back at his feet

"Why, what's this at all?" said Pete. 

"You've been very, very good to me, Pete, and if I never see you againyou'll think the best of me, will you not?"

She had an impulse to tell all--she could hardly resist it. 

He smoothed the black ripples of her hair back from her forehead, andsaid, tenderly, "She's not so well to-day, that's it. Her eyes arebubbling like the laver. " Then aloud, with a laugh, "Never see me again, eh? I'm not willing to share you with heaven yet, though. But I'll haveto be doing as the doctor was saying--sending you to England aver. Iwill now, I will, " he said, lifting his big finger threateningly. 

She slid backwards to the ground, but at the next moment was landed onPete's breast. "My poor lil Kirry! Not willing to stay with me, eh? Tut, tut! She'll be as smart as ever, soon. "

She drew away from him with shame and self-reproach, mingled with thatold feeling of personal repulsion which she could not conquer. 

Then the gate of the garden clicked, and Ross Christian came up thepath. "He's sticking to me as tight as a limpet, " said Pete. 

"Mr. Quilliam, " said Ross, "I come from my father this time. "

"'Deed, man, " said Pete. 

"He is a little pressed for money. "

"And Mr. Peter Christian sends to me?"

"He thought you might like to lend on mortgage. "

"On Ballawhaine?"

Ross stammered and stuttered, "Well, yes, certainly, as you say, onBalla----"

"To think, to think, " muttered Pete. He gazed vacantly before him fora moment, and then said, sharply, "I've no time to talk of it now, sir. I'm off to Douglas, but if you like to stop awhile and talk of it withMrs. Quilliam, I'll be hearing everything when I come back. Good-day, Kate. Take care of my wife. Good-day, Nancy; look after my two girlswhile I'm away. And Kitty, bogh" (whispering), "mind you send to RobbieClucas, the draper, for some nice warm underclothing. Good-bye! Another!Just one more" (then aloud) "Good-day to you, sir, good-day. "

XIII. 

 ". . . He, the Spirit Himself, may come When all the nerve of sense is numb. "

Philip had not slept at Ballure. The house was in darkness as he passed. He was riding to Douglas. It is sixteen miles between town and town, sixof them over the steep headland of Kirk Maughold. Before he reached thetop of the ascent he had been an hour on the road, and the night wasnear to morning. He had seen no one after leaving Ramsey, except adrunken miner with his bundle on his stick, marching home to a tipsytravesty of some brave song. 

His self-righteousness was overthrown; his pride was in the dust. Sincehe returned home, he had struggled to feel strong and easy in the senseof being an honourable man; but now he was thrown violently out of thepath in which he had meant to walk rightly. What he was about to do wasnecessary, was inevitable, yet in his relation to Kate he was in theposition of an immoral man, a betrayer, an adulterer, with a vulgarsecret, which he must support by lying and share with servants. And whatwas the outlook? What would be the end? Here was a situation from whichthere was no escape. Let there be no false glamour, no disguise, noself-deception. On the eve of his promotion to the dignities andresponsibilities of a Judge, he was taking the first step down on thecourse of the criminal!

The moon was shining at the full. It was low down in the sky, on hisright, and casting his shadow on to the road. He walked his horse up thelong hill. The even pace, the quiet of the night, the drowsy soundsof unseen stream and far-off murmuring sea overcame him in spite ofhimself, and he dozed in the saddle. As he reached the hilltop thelevel step of the horse awoke him, and he knew that he was passing thatdesolate spot on the border of parish and parish which is known as TomAlone's. 

Opening his eyes, without realising that he had slept, he thought hebecame aware of another horse and another rider walking by his side. They were on the left of him, going pace for pace, stepping along withhim like his shadow. "It _is_ my shadow, " he thought, and he forced uphis head to look. Nothing was there but a whitewashed wall that fenceda sheepfold. The moon had gone under the mountains on the right, and thenight would have been dark but for the stars. With an astonishment nearto terror, Philip gripped the saddle with his quaking knees, and brokehis horse into a trot. 

When the hard ride had brought warmth to his blood and a glow to hischeeks, he told himself he had been the victim of fancy. It wasnothing; it was a delusion of the sight; a mere shadow cast off by hisdistempered brain. He was passing at a walking pace through Laxey bythis time, and as the horse's feet beat up the echoes of the sleepingtown, his heart grew brave. 

Next day, at noon, he was talking with his servant, Jem-y-Lord, in hisrooms in Athol Street. He had lately become tenant of the entire house. They were in his old chambers on the first floor, looking on to thechurchyard. 

"I may rely on you, Jemmy?"

"You may, Deemster. "

His voice was low and husky, his eyes were down, he was fumbling thepapers on the table. "Get the carriage, a landau, from Shimmin's, butdrive it yourself. Be at Government offices at four--we'll go by St. John's. If there is any attempt at Ramsey to take the horse out of thecarriage, resist it. I will alight at the head of the town. Then driveon to the lane between the chapel and Elm Cottage. The moment the ladyjoins you, start away. Return to Laxey--are the rooms upstairs ready?"

"They will be. "

"The two in front of your own, and the little parlour behind this. Weshall need no other servants--the lady will be housekeeper. "

"I quite understand, Deemster. "

Philip turned his face aside and spoke thickly, "And you know whatname----"

"I know what name, Deemster. "

"You have no objection?"

"None whatever, Deemster. "

Phillip drew a long breath. "I am not Deemster yet, Jemmy. Perhaps itmight have been. . . But God knows. You are a good fellow--I shall notforget it. "

He made a motion as if to dismiss the man, but Jemmy did not go. 

"Beg pardon, your honor--"

"Yes?"

"Your honour has eaten nothing at breakfast--and the bed wasn't slept inlast night. "

"I was riding late--then I had work to do. "

"But I heard your foot on the floor---it woke me times. "

"I may have speeches to make to-day. . . . Fetch me a glass of water. "

Jemmy brought water-bottle and glass. As Philip took the water anicy numbness seemed to seize his arm. "I--well, I--I declare I can'tlift--ah! thanks. "

The man raised Philip's arm to his mouth; the glass rattled against histeeth while he drank. 

"Pardon, your honour. You're looking ten years older lately. The soonerthis day is over the better. "

"Sleep, Jemmy--I only want sleep. I must have a long, long sleep atBallure to-night. "

He left the house at three minutes to three, carrying his cloak over hisarm. It was a hot day at the beginning of June, and when he stepped outat the door the air of the street smote his face like a blast from anopen furnace. He reeled and almost fell. The sun's heat was like a loadon his head, its dazzling rays made his sight dim, and he had a sound inhis ears like running water. As he walked down the street he caught hiswandering reflection in the shop windows. "Jemmy was right, " he thought. "My worst enemy would not accuse me of looking too young to-day. "

There was a small crowd about the entrance to Government offices. Carriages were driving up, discharging their occupants and going on. The Bishop, the Attorney-General, finally the Governor with his wifeand daughter passed into the house. In the commotion of these arrivalsPhilip reached the door unobserved. When he was recognised, there was asudden hush of voices, and then a low buzz of gossip. He walked throughwith a firm step, going in alone, all eyes upon him. 

The doorway opens on a narrow passage, which is neither wide nor verylight, and the sunshine without made the gloom within more grey anduncertain. As Philip stepped over the threshold he was conscious thatsomebody was coming out. When he had taken two paces more, he drew upsharply with the sense of walking into a mirror. At the next instant hesaw that what he had taken for the reflection of his own face in a glasswas the actual face of another man. 

The man was coming out as he went in. They were approaching each other. At two paces more they were side by side. He looked at the man withcreeping horror. The man looked at him with amazement and dread. Thus, eye to eye, they crossed and passed. Then each turned his head over hisshoulder and looked after the other, Philip stepping into the gloom, thestranger striding into the light. 

At the next moment the narrow doorway was darkened by a ponderous figurerolling through. Then a heavy hand fell on Philip's shoulder, and ahearty voice exclaimed, "Hilloa, Christian; proud to see you, boy!You've outstripped old stick-in-the-mud; but I always knew you wouldlead me the way though. . . . Funking a bit, are you? Hands like ice, anyway. Come along--nothing to be nervous about--we're not going to giveyou the dose of Illiam Dhone---don't martyr the Christians these days, you know. "

Is was Philip's old master, the Clerk of the Rolls. Taking Philip's arm, he was for swinging him along; but Philip, still looking towardsthe street, said falteringly, "Did you, perhaps, see a man--a youngman--going out at the door?"

"When?"

"As you came in. "

"Was there?" said the Clerk dubiously; then, as by a sudden light, "Didhe wear a round hat and a monkey-jacket?"

"Maybe--I hardly know--I didn't observe. "

"That'll be the man. He's been at me half the morning for admission tothe Council. Said he'd known you all his life. Bough as a thorn-bush, but somehow I couldn't say no to the fellow at last. He ought to beinside, though. "

"It's nothing, " thought Philip. "Only another shadow from a tiredbrain. Jemmy's talk about my altered looks--the reflection in theshop-windows--the sudden gloom after the dazzling sunlight--that's all, that's all. Sleep, I want sleep. "

When the Governor took his seat with the first Deemster on his right, and motioned Philip to the chair on his left, an involuntary murmurpassed over the chamber at the contrast there presented--the oneDeemster very old, with round, russet face, quick, gleaming eyes, anda comfortable, youthful, even merry expression; the other, very young, with long, pallid, powerful face, large eyes, and a tired look of age. 

Philip presented his commission received from the Home Secretary, andthe oath of office was administered to him. Kissing a stained copy of aleather-bound Testament, he repeated the words after the Governor in athick croak that seemed to hack the air--

"By this book, and by the holy contents thereof, and by the wonderfulworks that God hath miraculously wrought in heaven above and on theearth beneath in six days and seven nights, I, Philip Christian, doswear that I will, without respect of favour or friendship, love orhate, loss or gain, consanguinity or affinity, envy or malice, executethe laws of this Isle justly, betwixt our Sovereign Lady the Queenand her subjects within this Isle, and betwixt party and party, asindifferently as the herring backbone doth lie in the midst of thefish. "

As Philip pronounced these words, he was conscious of only one face inthat assembly. It was not the face of the Governor, of the Bishop, ofany dignitary of Church or State--but a rugged, eager, dark face overa black beard in the grip of a great brown hand, with sparkling eyes, parted lips, and a look of boyish pride--it was the face of Pete. 

"It only remains for me, " said the Governor, "to congratulate yourHonour on the high office to which it has pleased Her Majesty to appointyou, and to wish you long life and health to fulfil its duties, withblameless credit to yourself and distinction to your country. "

There was some other speaking, and then Philip replied. He spokeclearly, firmly, and well. A reference to his grandfather provokedapplause. His modesty and natural manner made a strong impression. "HisExcellency is not so far wrong, after all, " was the common whisper. 

Some further business, and the Council broke up for general gossip. Then, on the pavement outside, while the carriages were coming in line, there were renewed congratulations, invitations, and warnings. TheGovernor invited Philip to dinner. He excused himself, saying he hadpromised to dine with his aunt at Ballure. The ladies warned him tospare himself, and recommended a holiday; and then the Clerk of theRolls, proud as a peacock, strutting here and there and everywhere, andassuming the airs of a guardian, cried, "Can't yet, though, for heholds his first court in Ramsey tomorrow morning. . . . Put on the cloak, Christian. It will be cold driving. Good men are scarce. "

An open landau came up at length, with Jem-y-Lord on the box-seat, andPete walking by the horse's head, smoothing its neck and tickling itsears. 

"Why, you were talking of the young man, Christian, and behold ye, here's the great fellow himself. Well, young chap, " slapping Pete on theback, "see your Deemster take the oath, eh?"

"He's my cousin, " said Philip. 

"Cousin! Is he, then--can he perhaps be--Ah! yes, of course, certainly------" The good man stammered and stopped, remembering themarriage of Philip's father. He opened the carriage door and stood asidefor Philip, but Philip said--

"Step in, Pete;" and, with a shamefaced look, Pete rolled into thecarriage. Philip took the seat beside him, amid a buzz of voices fromthe people standing about the door. 

"Well, as you like; good day, then, boy, good day, " said the Clerk ofthe Rolls, clashing the door back. The carriage began to move. 

"Good day, your Honour, " cried several out of the crowd. 

Philip raised his hat. The hats of the men went up to him. Some of thegirls were wiping their eyes. 

XIV. 

While Pete and Philip were driving over the road from Douglas, Kate wassitting with the child on her lap before the fire in Elm Cottage. Hereyes were restless, her manner agitated. She looked out at the windowfrom time to time. The setting sun behind the house still held the daywith horizontal shafts of light in the spring green of the transparentleaves. 

"Wouldn't you like to see the procession to-night, Nancy?" she said. 

"Aw, mortal, " said Nancy. "But I won't get lave, though. 'Take care ofmy two girls, ' says he----"

"You may go, Nancy; I'll see to baby, " said Kate. 

"But the man himself, woman; he'll be coming home as hungry as ahunter. "

"I'll see to his supper, too, " said Kate. "Carry the key with you thatyou may let yourself in, and be back at half-past seven. "

Then Nancy began to fly about the kitchen like sputter-ings out of thefrying-pan--filling the kettle, lighting the lamp, and getting togetherthe baby's night-clothes. Kate watched her and glanced at the clock. 

"Was the town quiet when you were out for the bacon, Nancy?" she said. 

"Quiet enough, " said Nancy. "Everybody flying off Le-zayre wayalready--except what were making for the quay. "

"Is the steamer sailing to-night, then?''

"Yes, the _Peveril_; but not water enough to float her till half-pastseven, they were saying. Here's the lil one's nightdress, and here's herbinder, bless her--just big enough for a bandage for a person's wrist ifshe sprained it churning. "

"Lay them on the fender to air, Nancy--I'll not undress baby yet awhile. And see--it's nearly seven. "

"I'll be pinning my shawl on and away like the wind, " said Nancy. "Thebogh!" she said, with the pin between her teeth. "She's off again. Doyou really think, now, the angels in heaven are as sweet and innocent, Kirry? I don't. They can't if they're grown up. And having to climbJacob's ladder, poor things, they must be. Then, if they're men--butthat's ridiculous, anyway. "

"The clock is striking, Nancy. No use going when everything's over, "said Kate, and the foot with which she rocked the child went faster nowthat the little one was asleep. 

"Sakes alive! Let me tie the strings of my bonnet, woman. Pity youcan't come yourself, Kitty. But if they're worth their salt they'll bewhipping round this way and giving you a lil tune, anyway. "

"Have you got the key, Nancy?"

"Yes, and I'll be back in an hour. And mind you put baby to bed soon, and mind you--and mind you----"

With as many warnings as if she had been mistress and Kate the servant, Nancy backed herself out of the house. It was now dark outside. 

Kate rose immediately, put the child in the cradle, and began to lay thetable for Pete's supper--the cruet, the plates, the teapot on the hobto warm, and then--by force of habit--two cups and saucers. But sight ofthe cups awakened her to painful consciousness. She put one of them backin the cupboard, broke the coal on the fire, settled the kettle up tothe blaze, fixed the Dutch oven with three rashers of bacon before thebars, then lit a candle, and, with a nervous look around, turned to goupstairs. 

In the bedroom she drew on her cloak, pinned her hat and veil withtrembling fingers, then took her purse from her pocket and emptied itscontents onto the dressing-table. 

"Not mine, " she thought. And standing before the mirror at that moment, she caught sight of her earrings. "I must take nothing of his, " she toldherself, and she raised her hands to her ears. Then her heart smote her. "As if Pete would ever think of such things, " she thought. "No, not ifI took everything he has in the world. And must _I_ be thinking ofthem?. . . Yet I cannot--I will not take them with me. "

She opened a drawer and hurried everything into it--the money, theearrings, the keeper off her finger, and then she paused at the touch ofthe wedding-ring. A superstitious instinct restrained her. Yet the ringwas the badge of her broken covenant. "With this ring I thee wed----"She tore off the wedding-ring also, and cast it with the rest. 

"He will find them, " she thought. "There will be nothing else to tellhim what has happened. He will come, and I shall be gone. He will call, and there will be no answer. He will look for me, and I shall be lost tohim for ever. Not a word left behind. Not a line to say, 'Thank you andgood-bye and God bless you, dear Pete, for all your love and goodness torae. "'

It was cruel--very cruel--yet what could she write? What could shesay that had not better be left unsaid? The least syllable--no, the uncertainty would be kinder. Perhaps Pete would think she wasdead--perhaps that she had destroyed herself. Even that would not be sobitter as the truth. He would get over it--he would become reconciled. "No, " she thought, "I can write nothing--I can leave no message. "

She shut the drawer quickly, and picked up the candle. As she did so, the shadow of herself moved about her. It mounted from the floor to thewall, from the wall to the ceiling. When she walked it seemed to be ontop of her, hanging over her, pressing down on her, crushing her. Shegrew cold and sick, and hastened to the door. The room was full of othershadows--the memories of sleepless nights and of painful awakenings. These stared at her from every familiar thing--the watch ticking in itsstand on the mantelpiece, the handle of the wardrobe, the pink curtainsof the bed, the white pillow beneath them. She felt like a frightenedchild. With a terrified glance over her shoulder she crept out of theroom. 

Being downstairs again, she breathed more freely. There was light allabout her, and the hall-parlour was bright and warm. The kettle was nowsinging in the cheerful blaze, the cat was purring on the rug, and therewas a smell of bacon slowly frying. She looked at the clock--it was aquarter after seven. "Time to waken baby, " she thought. 

She took from a chest the child's outdoor clothes--a robe, a pelisse, and a white hood. Her fingers had touched a scarlet hood in a cardboardbox, but "not that" she thought, and left it. She spread the clothesabout her chair, and then lifted the little one from the cradle to herpillowing arm. The child awoke as she raised it, and made a fretful cry, which she smothered in a gurgling kiss. 

"I can love the darling without shame now, " she thought. "It's sweetface will reproach me no more. "

With soft cooings at the baby's cheek, she was stooping to take therobe that lay at her feet, when her eyes fell on the round place in thecradle where the child had been. That made her think again of Pete. Hewould come home and find the little nest cold and empty. It would killhim; it would be a second bereavement. Was it not enough that she shouldgo away herself? Must she rob him of the child as well? He loved it; hedoted on it. It was the light of his eyes, the joy of his life. To loseit would be a blow like the blow of death. 

Yet could a mother leave her child behind her? Impossible! The fulltide of motherhood came over her, and its tender selfishness swept downeverything. "I cannot, " she thought; "come what may, I cannot and I willnot leave her. " And then she reached her hand for the child's pelisse. 

"It would be a kind of atonement, though, " she thought. To leave thelittle one to Pete would be making amends in some sort for the wrongthat she was doing him. To deny herself the sight of the child's sweetface day by day and hour by hour--that would be a punishment also, andshe deserved to be punished. "Can I leave her?" she thought. "Can I?Oh, what mother could bear it? No, no--never, never! And yet I ought--Imust--Oh, this is terrible!"

In the midst of this agony of uncertainty, thinking of Pete and ofthe wrong she had done him, yet pressing the child to her breast withtrembling arms, as if some one were tearing it away, the babe itselfsettled everything. Making some inarticulate whimper of communication, it nuzzled up to her, its eyes closed, but its head working against herbosom with the instinct of suckling, though it had never sucked. 

"I'm only half a mother, after all, " she thought. 

The highest joys, the deepest rights of motherhood had been denied toher--the child taking from the mother, the mother giving to the child, the child and the mother one--: this had not been hers. 

"My little baby can live without me, " she thought. "If I leave her, shewill never miss me. "

She nearly broke down at that thought, and almost let her purpose slip. It was like God's punishment in advance, God's hand directing her--thusto withdraw the child from dependence on herself. 

"Yes, I must leave her with Pete, " she thought. 

She put the child back into the cradle, half dressed as it was, androcked it until it slept again. Then she hung over the tiny bed as amother hangs over the little coffin that is soon to be shut up from hereyes for ever. Her tears rained down on the small counterpane. "My sweetbaby I my little Katherine! I may never kiss you again--never seeyou any more'--you may grow up to be a woman and know nothing of yourmother!"

The clock ticked loud in the quiet room--it was twenty-five minutes pastseven. 

"One kiss more, my little darling. If they ever tell you. . . They'll saybecause your mother left you. . . Oh, will she think I did not love her?Hush!"

Through the walls of the house there came the sound of a band playingat a distance. She looked at the clock again--it was nearly half-pastseven. Almost at the same moment there was the rumble of carriage-wheelson the road. They stopped in the lane that ran between the chapel andthe end of the garden. 

Kate rose from her knees and opened the door softly. The house hadbeen as a dungeon to her, and she was flying from it like a prisonerescaping. A shrill whistle pierced the air. The _Peveril_ was leavingthe quay. Through the streets there was a sound as of water running overstones. It was the scuttling of the feet of the townspeople as they ranto meet the procession. 

She stepped out. The garden was dark and quiet as a prison yard; Hardlya leaf stirred, but the moon was breaking through the old fir-treeas she lifted her troubled face to the untroubled sky. She stood andlistened. The band was coming nearer. She could hear the thud of the bigdrum. 

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Pete was there. He was helping at Philip's triumph. That was the beat ofhis great heart made audible. 

At this her own heart stopped for a moment. She grew chill at thethought of the brave man who asked no better lot than to love andcherish her, and at the memory of the other upon whose mercy she hadcast herself. The band stopped. There was a noise like the breaking ofa mighty rocket in the sky. The people were cheering and clapping hands. Then a clearer sound struck her ear. It was the clock inside the housechiming the half-hour. 

Nancy would be back soon. 

Kate listened intently, inclining her head inwards. If the child hadawakened at that instant, if it had stirred and cried, she must havegone back for good. She returned for one moment and flung herself overthe cradle again. One spasm more of lingering tenderness. "Good-bye, my little one! I am leaving you with him, darling, because he lovesyou dearly. You will grow up and be a good, good girl to him always. Good-bye, my pet! My precious, my precious! You will reward him for allhe has done for me. You are half of myself, dearest--the innocent half. Yes, you will wipe out your mother's sin. You will be all he thinksI am, but never have been. Farewell, my sweet Katherine, my little, darling baby--good-bye--farewell--good-bye!"

She leapt up and fled out of the house at last, on tiptoe, like a thief, pulling the door after her. 

When she heard the click of the lock she felt both wretchedness andexultation--immense agony and immense relief. If little Katherine wereto cry now, she could not return to her. The door was closed, the housewas shut, the prison was left behind. And behind her, too, were thetreachery, the duplicity, and deceit of ten stifling months. 

She hurried through the garden to a side-door in the wall leading tothe lane. The path was like a wave of the sea to her stumbling feet. Her breathing was short, her sight was weak, her temples were beatingaudibly. Half across the garden something touched her dress, and shemade a faint scream. It was Pete's dog, Dempster. He was looking up ather out of the darkness of the bushes. By the light through the blind ofthe house she could see his bat's ears and watchful eyes. 

Boom! Boom! Boom!

The band had begun again. It was coming nearer. Philip! Philip! He washer only refuge now. All else was a blank. 

The side-door had been little used. Its hinges and bolt were rusty andstiff. She broke her nails in opening it. From the other side came thelight jingle of a curb chain, and over the wall hovered a white sheet ofsmoking light. 

The carriage was in the lane, and the driver--Philip's servant, Jem-y-Lord--stood with the door open. Kate stumbled on the step and fellinto the seat. The door was closed. 

Then a new thought smote her. It was about the child, about Philip, about Pete. In leaving the little one behind her, though she had meantit so unselfishly, she had done the one thing that must be bigwith consequences. It would bring its penalty, its punishment, itsretribution. Stop! She would go back even yet. Her face was against theglass; she was struggling with the strap. But the carriage wasmoving. She heard the rumble of the wheels; it was like a deafeningreverberation from the day of doom. Then her senses dwaled away and thecarriage drove on. 

XV. 

Outside Ballure House there was a crowd which covered the garden, thefence, the high-road, and the top of the stone wall opposite. The bandhad ceased to play, and the people were shouting, clapping hands, andcheering. At the door--which was open--Philip stood bareheaded, and ashaft of the light in the house behind him lit up a hundred of the eagerfaces gathered in the darkness. He raised his hand for silence, butit was long before he was allowed to speak. Salutations rugged, rough--almost rude--but hearty to the point of homeliness, andaffectionate to the length of familiarity, flew at his head from everyside. "Good luck to you, boy!"--"Bravo for Ramsey!"--"The Christiansfor your life!"--"A chip of the ould block--Dempster Christian theSixth!"--"Hush, man, he's spaking!"--"Go it, Phil!"--"Give it fits, boy!"--"Hush! hush!"

"Fellow-townsmen, " said Philip--his voice swung like a quivering bellover a sea, --"you can never know how much your welcome has moved me. Icannot say whether in my heart of hearts I am more proud of it or moreashamed. To be ashamed of it altogether would dishonour _you_, and to betoo proud of it would dishonour _me_, I am not worthy of your faith andgood-fellowship. Ah!"--he raised his hand to check a murmur of dissent(the crowd was now hushed from end to end)--"let me utter the thought ofall. In honouring me you are thinking of others also ('No, ' 'Yes');you are thinking of my people--above all, of one who was laid under thewillows yonder, a wrecked, a broken, a disappointed man--my father, Godrest him! I will not conceal it from you--his memory has been my guide, his failures have been my lightship, his hopes my beacon, his love mystar. For good or for evil, my anchor has been in the depths of hisgrave. God forbid that I should have lived too long under the grasp ofa dead hand. It was my aim to regain what he had lost, and this day haswitnessed its partial reclamation. God grant I may not have paid toodear for such success. "

There were cries of "No, sir, no. "

He smiled faintly and shook his head. "Fellow-countrymen, you believe Iam worthy of the name I bear. There is one among you, an old comrade, atried and trusted friend, whose faith would be a spur if it were not areproach----"

His voice was breaking, but still it pealed over the sea of heads. "Well, I will try to do my duty--from this hour onwards you shall seeme try. Fellow-Manxmen, you will help me for the honour of the place Ifill, for the sake of our little island, and--yes, and for my own sakealso, I know you will--to be a good man and an upright judge. But"--hefaltered, his voice could barely support itself--"but if it should everappear that your confidence has been misplaced--if in the time to comeI should seem to be unworthy of this honour, untrue to the oath I tookto-day to do God's justice between man and man, a wrongdoer, not arighter of the wronged, a whited sepulchre where you looked for a towerof refuge--remember, I pray of you, my countrymen, remember, much asyou may be suffering then, there will be one who will be sufferingmore--that one will be myself. "

The general impression that night was that the Deemster's speech hadnot been a proper one. Breaking up with some damp efforts at the earlierenthusiasm, the people complained that they were like men who had comefor a jig and were sent home in a wet blanket. There should have beena joke or two, a hearty word of congratulation, a little naturalglorification of Ramsey, and a quiet slap at Douglas and Peel andCastletown, a few fireworks, a rip-rap or two, and some generalillumination. "But sakes alive! the solemn the young Dempster was! Andthe melancholy! And the mystarious!"

"Chut!" said Pete. "There's such a dale of comic in you, boys. Wonder inthe world to me you're not kidnapped for pantaloonses. Go home for alland wipe your eyes, and remember the words he's been spaking. I'm notgoing to forget them myself, anyway. "

Handing over the big drum to little Jonaique, Pete turned to go into thehouse. Auntie Nan was in the hall, hopping like a canary about Philip, in a brown silk dress that rustled like withered ferns, hugging him, drawing him down to the level of her face, and kissing him on theforehead. The tears were raining over the autumn sunshine of herwrinkled cheeks, and her voice was cracking between a laugh and a cry. 

"My boy! My dear boy! My boy's boy! My own boy's own boy!"

Philip freed himself at length, and went upstairs without turning hishead, and then Auntie Nan saw Pete standing in the doorway. 

"Is it you, Pete?" she said with an effort. "Won't you come in for amoment? No?"

"A minute only, then--just to wish you joy, Miss Christian, ma'am, " saidPete. 

"And you, too, Peter. Ah!" she said, with a bird-like turn of the head, "you must be a proud man to-night, Pete. "

"Proud isn't the word for it, ma'am--I'm clane beside myself. "

"He took a fancy to you when you were only a little barefooted boy, Pete. "

"So he did, ma'am. "

"And now that he's Deemster itself he owns you still. "

"Aw, lave him alone for that, ma'am. "

"Did you hear what he said about you in his speech. It isn't everybodyin his place would have done that before all, Pete. "

"'Deed no, ma'am. "

"He's true to his friends, whatever they are. "

"True as steel. "

The maid was carrying the dishes into the dining-room, and Auntie Nansaid in a strained way, "You won't stay to dinner, Pete, will you?Perhaps you want to get home to the mistress. Well, home is best for allof us, isn't it? Martha, I'll tell the Deemster myself that dinner is onthe table. Well, good-night, Peter. I'm always so glad to see you. "

She was whisking about to go upstairs, but Pete had taken one step intothe dining-room, and was gazing round with looks of awe. 

"Lord alive, Miss Christian, ma'am, what feelings now-barefooted boy, you say? You're right there, and cold and hungry too, sleeping inthe gable-house with the cow, and not getting much but the milk I wasstaling from her, and a leathering at the ould man for that. Philipfetched me in here one evenin'--that was the start, ma'am. See thatpepper-and-salt egg on the string there? It's a Tommy Noddy's. Philipgot it nesting up Gob-ny-Garvain. Nearly cost him his life, though. Yousee, ma'am, Tommy Noddy has only one, and she fights like mad for it. We were up forty fathom and better, atop of a cave, and had two straightrocks below us in the sea, same as an elephant's hoofs, you know, walking out on the blue floor. And Phil was having his lil hand on theledge where the egg was keeping, when swoop came the big white wingsatop of his bare head. If I hadn't had a stick that day, ma'am, it wouldhave been heaven help the pair of us. The next minute Tommy Noddy wasgoing splash down the cliffs, all feathers and blood together, or Philipwouldn't have lived to be Dempster. . . . Aw, frightened you, have I, ma'am, for all it's so long ago? The heart's a quare thing, now, isn'tit? Got no yesterday nor to-morrow neither. Well, good-night, ma'am. "Pete was making for the door, when he looked down and said, "What'sthis, at all? Down, Dempster, down!"

The dog had came trotting into the hall as Pete was going out. He wasperking up his big ears and wagging his stump of a tail in front of him. 

"My dog, ma'am? Yes, ma'am, and like its master in some ways. Not muchof itself at all, but it has the blood in it, though, and maybe it'llcome out better in the next generation. Looking for me, are you, Dempster? Let's be taking the road, then. "

"Perhaps you're wanted at home, Pete?"

"Wouldn't trust. Good night, ma'am. " Auntie Nan hopped upstairs in herrustling dress, relieved and glad in the sweet selfishness of her loveto get rid of Pete and have Philip to herself. 

XVI. 

Pete went off whistling in the darkness, with the dog driving aheadof him. "I'm to blame, though, " he thought. "Should have gone homedirectly. "

The town was now quiet, the streets were deserted, and Pete began torun. "She'd be alone, too. That must have been Nancy in the crowd yonderby Mistress Beatty's. 'Lowed her out to see the do, it's like. Ought tobe back now, though. "

As Pete came near to Elm Cottage, the moon over the tree-tops lit upthe panes of the upper windows as with a score of bright lamps. One stepmore, and the house was dark. 

"She'll be waiting for me. Listening, too, I'll go bail. "

He was at the gate by this time, and the dog was panting at his feetwith its nose close to the lattice. 

"Be quiet, dog, be quiet. "

Then he raised the latch without a sound, stepped in on tiptoe, andclosed the gate as silently behind him. 

"I'll have a game with her; I'll take her by surprise. "

His eyes began to dance with mischief, like a child's, and he creptalong the path with big cat strides, half doubled up, and holding hisbreath, lest he should laugh aloud. 

"The sweet creatures! A man shouldn't frighten them, though, " hethought. 

When he reached the porch he went down on all fours, and began mewinglike a mournful tom-cat near to the bottom of the door. Then he listenedwith his ear to the jamb. He expected a faint cry of alarm, the raucousvoice of Nancy Joe, and the clatter of feet towards the porch. There wasnot a sound. 

"She's upstairs, " he thought, and stepped back to look up at the frontof the house. There was no light in the rooms above. 

"I know what it is. Nancy is not home yet, and Kirry's fallen asleep atthe rocking. "

He stole up to the window and tried to look into the hall, but the blindwas down, and he could not see much through the narrow openings at thesides of it. 

"She's sleeping, that's it. The house was quiet and she dropped off, rocking the lil one, that's all. "

He scraped a handful of the light gravel and flung a little of it at thewindow. "That'll remind her of something, " he thought, and he laughedunder his breath. 

Then he listened again with his ear at the sill. There was no noisewithin. He flung more gravel and waited, thinking he might catch herbreathing, but he could hear nothing. 

Then rising hurriedly and throwing off his playfulness, he strode tothe door and tried to open it. The door was locked. He returned to thewindow. 

"Kate!" he called softly. "Kate! Are you there? Do you hear me? It'sPete. Don't be frightened, Kate, bogh!"

There was no response. He could hear the beat of the sea on the shore. The dog had perched himself on one end of the window sill and wasbeginning to whine. 

"What's this at all? She can't be out. Couldn't take the child anyway. Where's that Nancy? What right had the woman to lave her? She hasfainted, being left alone; that's what's going doing. "

He tried to open the window, but the latch was shot. Then he tried theother windows, and the back door, and the window above the hall, whichhe reached from the roof of the porch; but they would not stir. When hereturned to the hall window, the white blind was darker. The lamp insidethe room was going out. 

The moonlight was dripping down on him through the leaves of the trees. He found some matches beside his pipe in his side pocket, struck one, and looked at the sash, then took out his clasp knife to remove the paneunder the latch. His hand trembled and shook and burst through the glasswith a jerk. It cut his wrist, but he felt the wound no more than ifit had been the glass instead of his arm that bled. He thrust his handthrough, shot back the latch, then pushed up the sash, and clamberedinto the room past the blind. The cat, sitting on the ledge inside, rubbed against his hand and purred. 

"Kirry! Kate!" he whispered. 

The lamp had given up its last gleam with the puff of wind from thewindow, and, save for the slumbering fire, all was dark within thehouse. He hardly dared to drop to his feet for fear of treading onsomething. When he was at last in the middle of the floor he stood withlegs apart, struck another match, held the light above his head, andlooked down and around, like a man in a cave. 

There was nothing. The child, awakened by the draught of the night air, began to cry from the cradle. He took it up and hushed it with babywords of tenderness in a breaking voice. "Hush, bogh, hush! Mammie willcome to it, then. Mammie will come for all. "

He lit a candle and crept through the house, carrying the light aboutwith him. There was no sign anywhere until he came to the bedroom, whenhe saw that the hat and cloak of Kate's daily wear had gone. Then heknew that he was a broken-hearted man. With a cry of desolation hestopped in his search and came heavily downstairs. 

He had been warding off the moment of despair, but he could do so nolonger now. The empty house and the child, the child and the emptyhouse; these allowed of only one interpretation. "She's gone, bogh, she's left us; she wasn't willing to stay with us, God forgive her!"

Sitting on a stool with the little one on his knees, he sobbed while thechild cried--two children crying together. Suddenly he leapt up. "I'mnot for believing it, " he thought. "What woman alive could do the likeof it? There isn't a mother breathing that hasn't more bowels. And sheused to love the lil one, and me too--and does, and does. "

He saw how it was. She was ill, distraught, perhaps even--God help herI--perhaps even mad. Such things happened to women after childbirth--thedoctor himself had said as much. In the toils of her bodily trouble, beset by mental terrors, she had fled away from her baby, her husband, and her home, pursued by God knows what phantoms of disease. But shewould get better, she would come back. 

"Hush, bogh, hush, then, " he whimpered tenderly. "Mammie will come homeagain. Still and for all she'll come back. "

There was the click of a key in the lock, and he crept back to thestool. Nancy came in, panting and perspiring. 

"Dear heart alive! what a race I've had to get home, " she said, puffingthe air of the night. 

She was throwing off her bonnet and shawl, and talking before lookinground. 

"Such pushing and scrooging, you never seen the like, Kirry. Aw, my bestSunday bonnet, only wore at me once, look at the crunched it is! Butwhat d'ye think now? Poor Christian Killip's baby is dead for all. Diedin the middle of the rejoicings. Aw, dear, yes, and the band goingby playing 'The Conquering Hero' the very minute. Poor thing! she wasdistracted, and no wonder. I ran round to put a sight on the poor soul, and----why, what's going wrong with the lamp, at all? Is that yourselfon the stool, Kirry? Pete, is it? Then where's the mistress?"

She plucked up the poker, and dug the fire into a blaze. "What's doingon you, man? You've skinned your knuckles like potato peel. Man, man, what for are you crying, at all?"

Then Pete said in a thick croak, "Hould your bull of a tongue, Nancy, and take the child out of my arms. "

She took the baby from him, and he rose to his feet as feeble as an oldman. 

"Lord save us!" she cried. "The window broke, too. What's happened?"

"Nothing, " growled Pete. 

"Then what's coming of Kirry? I left her at home when I went out atseven. ". 

"I'm choking with thirst, woman. Can't you be giving a man a drink ofsomething?"

He found a dish of milk on the table, where the supper had been laid, and he gulped it down at a mouthful. 

"She's gone--that's what it is. I see it in your face. " Then going tothe foot of the stairs, she called, "Kirry! Kate! Katherine Cregeen!"

"Stop that!" shouted Pete, and he drew her back from the stairs. 

"Why aren't you spaking, then?" she cried. "If you're man enough to bearthe truth, I'm woman enough to hear it. "

"Listen to me, Nancy, " said Pete, with uplifted fist. "I'm going outfor an hour, and till I'm back, stay you here with the child, and saynothing to nobody. "

"I knew it!" cried Nancy. "That's what she hurried me out for. Aw, dear!Aw, dear! What for did you lave her with that man this morning?"

"Do you hear me, woman?" said Pete; "say nothing to nobody. Myheart's lying heavy enough already. Open your lips, and you'll kill mestraight. "

Then he went out of the house, staggering, stumbling, bent almostdouble. His hat lay on the floor; he had gone bareheaded. 

He turned towards Sulby. "She's there, " he thought "Where else shouldshe be? The poor, wandering lamb wants home. "

XVII. 

The bar-room of "The Manx Fairy" was full of gossips 'that night, andthe puffing of many pipes was suspended at a story that Mr. Jelly wastelling. 

"Strange enough, I'm thinking. 'Deed, but it's mortal strange. Talkabout tale-books--there's nothing in the 'Pilgrim's Progress' itself toequal it. The son of one son coming home Dempster, with processions andbands of music, at the very minute the son of the other son is gettingkicked out of the house same as a dog. "

"Strange uncommon, " said John the Widow, and other voices echoed him. 

Jonaique looked round the room, expecting some one to question him. Asnobody did so, except with looks of inquiry, he said, "My ould manheard it all. He's been tailor at the big house since the time of IronChristian himself. "

"Truth enough, " said Cæsar. 

"And he was sewing a suit for the big man in the kitchen when the badwork was going doing upstairs. "

"You don't say!"

"'You've robbed me!' says the Ballawhaine. "

"Dear heart alive!" cried Grannie. "To his own son, was it?"

"'You've cheated me!' says he, 'you deceaved me, you've embezzled mymoney and broke my heart!' says he. 'I've spent a fortune on you, andwhat have you brought me back?' says he. 'This, ' says he, 'and this--andthis--barefaced forgeries, all of them!' says he. "

"The Lord help us!" muttered Cæsar. 

"'They're calling me a miser, aren't they?' says he. 'I grind my peopleto the dust, do I? What for, then? _Whom_ for? I've been a good fatherto you, anyway, and a fool, too, if nobody knows it!' says he. "

"Nobody! Did he say nobody, Mr. Jelly?" said Cæsar, screwing up hismouth. 

"'If you'd had _my_ father to deal with, ' says he, 'he'd have turnedyou out long ago for a liar and a thief. ' 'My God, father, ' saysRoss, struck silly for the minute. 'A thief, d'ye hear me?' says theBallawhaine; 'a thief that's taken every penny I have in the world, andleft me a ruined man. '"

"Did he say that?" said Cæsar. 

"He did, though, " said Jonaique. "The ould man was listening from thekitchen-stairs, and young Ross snaked out of the house same as a cur. "

"And where's he gone to?" said Cæsar. 

"Gone to the devil, I'm thinking, " said Jonaique. 

"Well, he'd be good enough for him with a broken back--pity the ould mandidn't break it, " said Cæsar. "But where is the wastrel now?"

"Gone to England over with to-night's packet, they're saying. "

"Praise God, from whom all blessings flow, " said Cæsar. 

A grunt came out of the corner from behind a cloud of smoke. "You'veyour own rasons for saying so, Cæsar, " said the husky voice of BlackTom. "People were talking and talking one while there that he'd be'bezzling somebody's daughter, as well as the ould miser's money. "

"Answer a fool according to his folly, " muttered Cæsar; and then thedoor jerked open, and Pete came staggering into the room. Every pipeshank was lowered in an instant, and Grannie's needles ceased to click. 

Pete was still bareheaded, his face was ghastly white, and his eyeswandered, but he tried to bear himself as if nothing had happened. Smiling horribly, and nodding all round, as a man does sometimes inbattle the moment the bullet strikes him, he turned to Grannie and movedhis lips a little as if he thought he was saying something, though heuttered no sound. After that he took out his pipe, and rammed it withhis forefinger, then picked a spill from the table, and stooped to thefire for a light. 

"Anybody--belonging--me--here?" he said, in a voice like a crow's, coughing as he spoke, the flame dancing over the pipe mouth. 

"No, Pete, no, " said Grannie. "Who were you looking for, at all?"

"Nobody, " he answered. "Nobody partic'lar. Aw, no, " he said, and hepuffed until his lips quacked, though the pipe gave out no smoke. "Just come in to get fire to my pipe. Must be going now. So long, boys!S'long! Bye-bye, Grannie!"

No one answered him. He nodded round the room again and smiledfearfully, crossed to the door with a jaunty roll, and thus launched outof the house with a pretence of unconcern, the dead pipe hanging upsidedown in his mouth, and his head aside, as if his hat had been tiltedrakishly on his uncovered hair. 

When he had gone the company looked into each other's faces in surpriseand fear, as if a ghost in broad daylight had passed among them. ThenBlack Tom broke the silence. 

"Men, " said he, "that was a d------ lie. "

"Si------" began Cæsar, but the protest foundered in his dry throat. 

"Something going doing in Ramsey, " Black Tom continued. "I believe in myheart I'll follow him. "

"I'll be going along with you, Mr. Quilliam, " said Jonaique. 

"And I, " said John the Clerk. 

"And I"--"And I, " said the others, and in half a minute the room wasempty. 

"Father, " whimpered Grannie, through the glass partition, "hadn't youbetter saddle the mare and see if any thing's going wrong with Kirry?"

"I was thinking the same myself, mother. "

"Come, then, away with you. The Lord have mercy on all of us!"

XVIII. 

As soon as he was out of earshot Pete began to run. Within half anhour he was back at Elm Cottage. "She'll be home by this time, " he toldhimself, but he dared not learn the truth too suddenly. Creeping up tothe hall window, he listened at the broken pane. The child was crying, and Nancy Joe was talking to herself, and sobbing as she bathed thelittle one. 

"Bless its precious heart, it's as beautiful as the angels in heaven. I've bathed her mother on the same knee a hundred times. 'Deed have I, and a thousand times too. Mother, indeed! What sort of mothers are innow at all? She must have a heart-as hard as a stone to lave the likeof it. Can't be a drop of nature in her. . . . Goodness, Nancy, what aresaying for all? Kate is it? Your own little Kirry, and you blackeningher! Aw, dear!--aw, dear! The bogh!--the bogh!"

Pete could not go in. He crept back to the cabin in the garden andleaned against it to draw his breath and think. Then he noticed thatthe dog was on the path with its long tongue hanging over its jaw. Itstopped its panting to whine woefully, and then it turned towards thedarker part of the garden. 

"He's telling me something, " thought Pete. 

A car rattled down the side road at that moment, and the light of itslamp shot through the bushes to his feet. 

"The ould gate must be open, " he thought. 

He looked and saw that it was, and then a new light dawned on him. 

"She's gone up to Philip's, " he told himself. "She's gone by Claughbaneto Ballure to find me. "

Five minutes afterwards he was knocking at Ballure House. His breath wascoming in gusts, perspiration was standing in beads on his face, and hishead was still bare, but he was carrying himself bravely as if nothingwere amiss. His knock was answered by the maid, a tall girl of cheerfulexpression, in a black frock, a white apron, and a snow-white cap. Petenodded and smiled at her. 

"Anybody been here for me? No?" he asked. 

"No, sir, n--o, I think not, " the girl answered, and as she looked atPete her face straightened. 

There was a rustling within as of autumn leaves, and then a twitteringvoice cried, "Is it Capt'n Quilliam, Martha?"

"Yes, ma'am. "

Some whispered conference took place at the dining-room door, and AuntieNan came hopping through the hall. But Pete was already moving away inthe darkness. 

"Shall I call the Deemster, Peter?"

"Aw, no, ma'am, no, not worth bothering him. Good everin', MissChristian, ma'am, good everin' to you. "

Auntie Nan and Martha were standing in the light at the open door whenthe iron gate of the garden swung to with a click, and Pete swung acrossthe road. 

He was making for the lane which goes down to the shore at the foot ofBallure Glen. "No denying it, " he thought. "It must be true for all. Thetrouble in her head has driven her to it. Poor girl, poor darling!"

He had been fighting against an awful idea, and the quagmire of despairhad risen to his throat at last. The moon was behind the cliffs, and hegroped his way through the shadows at the foot of the rocks like one wholooks for something which he dreads to find. He found nothing, and hiscatchy breathing lengthened to sighs. 

"Thank God, not here, anyway!" he muttered. 

Then he walked down the shore towards the harbour. The tide was stillhigh, the wash of the waves touched his feet; on the one hand the darksea, unbroken by a light, on the other the dull town blinking out anddropping asleep. 

He reached the end of the stone pier at the mouth of the harbour, andwith his back to the seaward side of the lighthouse he stared down intothe grey water that surged and moaned under the rounded wall. A blackcloud like a skate was floating across the moon, and a startled gannetscuttled from under the pier steps into the moon's misty waterway. Therewas nothing else to be seen. 

He turned back towards the town, following the line of the quay, andglancing down into the harbour when he came to the steps. Still he sawnothing of the thing he looked for. "But it was high water then, and nowit's the ebby tide, " he told himself. 

He had met with nobody on the shore or on the pier, but as he passedthe sheds in front of the berth for the steamers he was joined by theharbour-master, who was swinging home for the night, with his coatacross his arm. Then he tried to ask the question that was slipping offhis tongue, but dared not, and only stammered awkwardly----

"Any news to-night, Mr. Quay le?"

"Is it yourself, Capt'n? If you've none, I've none. It's independentyoung rovers like you for newses, not poor ould chaps tied to theharbour-post same as a ship's cable. I was hearing you, though. You'da power of music in the everin' yonder. Fine doings up at Ballure, seemingly. "

"Nothing fresh with yourself then, Daniel? No?"

"Except that I am middling sick of these late sailings, and the soonerthey're building us a breakwater the better. If the young Deemster willget that for us, he'll do. "

They were nearing a lamp at the corner of the marketplace. 

"It's like you know the young Ballawhaine crossed with the boatto-night? Something wrong, with the ould man, they're telling me. Butboy, veen, what's come of your hat at all?"

"My hat?" said Pete, groping about his head. "Oh, my hat? Blown off onthe pier, of coorse. "

"'Deed, man! Not much wind either. You'll be for home and the youngwife, eh, Capt'n?"

"Must be, " said Pete, with an empty laugh. And the harbour-master, whowas a bachelor, laughed more heartily, and added----

"You married men are like Adam, you've lost the rib of your liberty, butyou've got a warm little woman to your side instead. "

"Ha! ha! ha! Goodnight!"

Pete's laugh echoed through the empty market-place. 

The harbour-master had seen nothing. Pete drew a long breath, followedthe line of the harbour as far as to the bridge at the end of it, andthen turned back through the town. He had forgotten again that he wasbareheaded, and he walked down Parliament Street with a tremendous stepand the air of a man to whom nothing unusual had occurred. People werestanding in groups at the corner of every side street, talking eagerly, with the low hissing sound that women make when they are discussingsecrets. So absorbed were they that Pete passed some of them unobserved. He caught snatches of their conversation. 

"The rascal, " said one. 

"Clane ruined the ould man, anyway, " said another. 

"Ross Christian again, " thought Pete. But a greater secret swampedeverything. Still he heard the people as he passed. 

"Sarve her right, though, whatever she gets--she knew what he was. "

"Laving the child, too, the unfeeling creature. "

Then the sharp voices of the women fell on the dull consciousness ofPete like forks of lightning. 

"Whisht, woman! the husband himself, " said somebody. 

There was a noise of feet like the plash of retiring waves, and Petenoticed that one of the groups had broken into a half circle, facinghim as he strode along the street. He nodded cheerfully over both sides, threw back his bare head, and plodded on. But his teeth were set hard, and his breathing was quick and audible. 

"I see what they mane, " he muttered. 

Outside his own house he found a crowd. A saddle-horse, with a cloud ofsteam rising from her, was standing with the reins over its head, linkedto the gate-post. It was Cæsar's mare, Molly. Every eye was on thehouse, and no one saw Pete as he came up behind. 

"Black Tom's saying there's not a doubt of it, " said a woman. 

"Gone with the young Ballawhaine, eh?" said a man. 

"Shame on her, the hussy, " said another woman. 

Pete ploughed his way through with both arms, smiling and noddingfuriously. "If you, plaze, ma'am I If _you_ plaze. "

As he pushed on he heard voices behind him. "Poor man, he doesn't knowyet. "--"I'm taking pity to look at him. "

The house-door was open. On the threshold stood a young man with longhair and a long note-book. He was putting questions. "Last seen at seveno'clock--left alone with child--husband out with procession--any otherinformation?"

Nancy Joe, with the child on her lap, was answering querulously fromthe stool before the fire, and Cæsar, face down, was leaning on themantelpiece. 

Pete took in the situation at a glance. Then he laid his big hand onthe young man's shoulder and swung him aside as if he had been turning aswivel. 

"What going doing?" he asked. 

The young man faltered something. Sorry to intrude--Capt'n Quilliam'strouble. 

"What trouble?" said Pete. 

"Need I say--the lamented--I mean distressing--in fact, the mysteriousdisappearance----"

"What disappearance?" said Pete, with an air of amazement. 

"Can it be, sir, that you've not yet heard----"

"Heard what? Your tongue's like a turnip-watch in a fob pocket--out withit, man. "

"Your wife, Captain----"

"What? My wife disa---- What? So this is the jeel! My wife mysteriouslydisappear---- Oh, my gough!"

Pete burst into a peal of laughter. He shouted, roared, held his sides, doubled, rocked up and down, and at length flung himself into a chair, threw back his head, heaved out his legs, and shook till the houseitself seemed to quake. 

"Well, that's good! that's rich! that bates all!" he cried. 

The child awoke on Nancy's knee and sent its thin pipe through Pete'sterrific bass. Cæsar opened his mouth and gaped, and the young man, nowwhite and afraid, scraped and backed himself to the door, saying--

"Then perhaps it's not true, after all, Capt'n?"

"Of coorse it's not true, " said Pete. 

"Maybe you know where she's gone. "

"Of course I know where's she's gone. I sent her there myself!"

"You did, though?" said Cæsar. 

"Yes, did I--to England by the night sailing. "

"'Deed, man!" said Cæsar. 

"The doctor ordered it. You heard him yourself, grandfather. "

"Well, that's true, too, " said Cæsar. 

The young man closed his long note-book and backed into a throng ofwomen who had come up to the porch. "Of course, if you say so, Capt'nQuilliam----"

"I do say so, " shouted Pete; and the reporter disappeared. 

The voices of two women came from the gulf of white faces wherein thereporter had been swallowed up. "I'm right glad it's lies they've beentelling of her, Capt'n, " said the first. 

"Of coorse you are, Mistress Kinnish, " shouted Pete. 

"I could never have believed the like of the same woman, and I alwaysknew the child was brought up by hand, " said the other. 

"Coorse you couldn't, Mistress Kewley, " Pete replied. 

But he swung up and kicked the door to in their faces. The strangersbeing shut out, Cæsar said cautiously--

"Do you mane that, Peter?"

"Molly's smoking at the gate like a brewer's vat, father, " said Pete. 

"The half hasn't been told you, Peter. Listen to me. It's only properyou should hear it. When you were away at Kim-berley this Ross Christianwas bothering the girl terrible. "

"She'll be getting cold so long out of the stable, " said Pete. 

"I rebuked him myself, sir, and he smote me on the brow. Look! Here'sthe mark of his hand over my temple, and I'll be carrying it to mygrave. "

"Ross Christian! Ross Christian!" muttered Pete impatiently. 

"By the Lord's restraining grace, sir, I refrained myself--but if Mr. Philip hadn't been there that night--I'm not hould-ing with violence, no, resist not evil--but Mr. Philip fought the loose liver with his fistfor me; he chastised him, sir; he--"

"D------the man!" cried Pete, leaping to his feet. "What's he to me ormy wife either?"

Cæsar went home huffed, angry, and unsatisfied. And then, all being goneand the long strain over, Pete snatched the puling child out of Nancy'sarms, and kissed it and wept over it. 

"Give her to me, the bogh, " he cried, hoarse as a raven, and then saton the stool before the fire, and rocked the little one and himselftogether. "If I hadn't something innocent to lay hould of I should begoing mad, that I should. Oh, Katherine bogh! Katherine bogh! My littlebogh! My I'll bogh millish!"

In the deep hours of the night, after Nancy had grumbled and sobbedherself to sleep by the side of the child, Pete got up from the sofa inthe parlour and stole out of the house again. 

"She may come up with the morning tide, " he told himself. "If she does, what matter about a lie, God forgive me? God help me, what matter aboutanything?"

If she did not, he would stick to his story, so that when she came back, wherever she had been, she would come home as an honest woman. 

"And _will be_, too, " he thought. "Yes, will be, too, spite of all theirdirty tongues--as sure as the Lord's in heaven. "

The dog trotted on in front of him as he turned up towards Ballure. 

XIX. 

Philip had not eaten much that night at dinner. He had pecked at thewing of a fowl, been restless, absent, preoccupied, and like a manstruggling for composure. At intervals he had listened as for a step ora voice, then recovered himself and laughed a little. 

Auntie Nan had explained his uneasiness on grounds of natural excitementafter the doings of the great day. She had loaded his plate with goodthings, and chirruped away under the light of the lamp. 

"So sweet of you, Philip, not to forget Pete amid all your success. He'sreally such a good soul. It would break his heart if you neglected him. Simple as a child, certainly, and of course quite uneducated, but----"

"Pete is fit to be the friend of any one, Auntie. "

"The friend, yes, but you'll allow not exactly the companion----"

"If he is simple, it is the simplicity of a nature too large for littlethings. "

"The dear fellow! He's not a bit jealous of you, Philip. "

"Such feelings are far below him, Auntie. "

"He's your first cousin after all, Philip. There's no denying that. Ashe says, the blood of the Christians is in him. "

The conversation took a turn. Auntie Nan fell to talking of the otherPeter, uncle Peter Christian of Ballawhaine. This was the day of the bigman's humiliation. The son he had doted on was disgraced. She tried, butcould not help it; she struggled, but could not resist the impulse--inher secret heart the tender little soul rejoiced. 

"Such a pity, " she sighed. "So touching when a father--no matter howselfish--is wrecked by love of a thankless son. I'm sorry, indeed I am. But I warned him six years ago. Didn't I, now?"

Philip was far away. He was seeing visions of Pete going home, the deserted house, the empty cradle, the desolate man alone andheart-broken. 

They rose from the table and went into the little parlour, Auntie Nan onPhilip's arm, proud and happy. She fluttered down to the piano and sang, to cheer him up a little, an old song in a quavering old voice. 

 "Of the wandering falcon The cuckoo complains, He has torn her warm nest, He has scattered her young. "

Suddenly Philip got up stiffly, and said in a husky whisper, "Isn't thathis voice?"

"Who's, dear?"

"Pete's. "

"Where, dearest?"

"In the hall. "

"I hear nobody. Let me look. No, Pete's not here. But how pale you are, Philip. What's amiss?"

"Nothing, " said Philip. "I only thought----"

"Take some wine, dear, or some brandy. You've overtired yourself to-day, and no wonder. You must have a long, long rest to-night. "

"Yes I'll go to bed at once. "

"So soon! Well, perhaps it's best. You want sleep: your eyes show that. Martha! Is everything ready in the Deemster's room? All but the lamp?Take it up, Martha. Philip, you'll drink a little brandy and waterfirst? I'll carry it to your room then; you might need it in the night. Go before me, dear. Yes, yes, you must. Do you think I want you tosee how old I am when I'm going upstairs? Ah! I hadn't to climb by thebanisters this way when I came first to Bal-lure. "

On reaching the landing, Philip was turning to his old room, the bedroomhe had occupied from his boyhood up, the bedroom of his mother's father, old Capt'n Billy. 

"Not that way to-night, Philip. This way--_there!_ What do you say to_that?_"

She pushed open the door of the room opposite, and the glow of the firewithin rushed out on them. 

"My father's room, " said Philip, and he stepped back. 

"Oh, I've aired it, and it's not a bit the worse for being so long shutup. See, it's like toast Oo--oo--oo! Not the least sign of my breath. Come!"

"No, Auntie, no. "

"Are you afraid of ghosts? There's only one ghost lives here, Philip, the memory of your dear father, and that will never harm you. "

"But this place is too sacred. No one has slept here since----"

"That's why, dearest. But now you have justified your father's hopes, and it must be your room for the future. Ah! if he could only seeyou himself, how proud he would be! Poor father! Perhaps he does. Whoknows--perhaps--kiss me, Philip. See what an old silly I am, after all. So happy that I have to cry. But mind now, you've got to sleep in thisroom every time you come to hold court in Ramsey. I refuse to share youwith Elm Cottage any longer. Talk about jealousy! If Pete isn'tjealous, I know somebody who is--or soon will be. But Philip--PhilipChristian----"

"Yes?"

The sweet old face grew solemn. "The greatest man has his cares anddoubts and divisions. That's only natural--out in the open field oflife. But don't be ashamed to come here whenever you are in trouble. It's what home is for, Philip. Just a place of peace and shelter fromthe rough world, when it wounds and hurts you. A quiet spot, dear, withmemories of father and mother and innocent childhood--and with an oldgoose of an auntie, maybe, who thinks of you all day and every day, and is so vain and foolish--and--and who loves you. Philip, better thananybody in the World. "

Philip's arms were about the old soul, but he had not heard her. With aterrified glance towards the window, he was saying in a low quick voice, "Isn't that a footstep on the gravel?"

"N--o, no! You're nervous to-night, Philip. Lie and rest. When you'reasleep, I'll creep back and look at you. "

She left him, and he looked around. Not in all the world could Philiphave found a spot so full of terrors. It was like a sepulchre of deadthings--his dead father, his dead mother, his dead youth, his deadinnocence, his slaughtered friendship, and his outraged conscience. 

Over the fireplace hung a portrait of his mother. It was the pictureof a comely girl, young and soft, with full ripe lips and bright browneyes. Philip shuddered as he looked at it. The portrait was like theghost of himself looking through the veil of a woman's face. 

Facing this, and hanging over the side of the bed, was a portrait of hisfather. The eyes were full of light, the lines of the cheek were round;the mouth seemed to quiver with a tender smile. But Philip could not seeit as it was. He saw it with straggling hair, damp and long as reeds, the cheeks pallid and drawn, the eyes like lamps in a mist, the throatbare of the shirt, and the lips kept apart by laboured breathing. 

Near the window stood the cot where he had once slept with Pete, andleaped up in the morning and laughed. On every hand, wherever his eyecould rest, there rose a phantom of his lost and buried life. And AuntieNannie's love and pride had brought him to this chamber of torture!

The night was calm enough outside; but it seemed to lie dead within thatroom, so quiet was it and so still. There was a clock, but it did notgo; and there was a cage for a bird, but no bird pecked in it, Philipthought he heard a knocking at the door of the house. Nobody answeredit, so he rang for the maid. She came upstairs with a smile. 

"Didn't you hear a knock at the front door, Martha?"

"No, sir, " said the girl. 

"Strange! Very strange! I could have sworn it was the knock of Mr. Quilliam. "

"Perhaps it was, sir. Ill go and look. "

"No matter. I've a singing in my ears to-night. It must be that. "

The girl left him. He threw off his boots and began to creep about theroom as if he were doing something in which he feared detection. Everytime his eyes fell on the portrait of his father he dropped his head andturned aside. Presently he heard voices in the room below. This time thesound in his ears was no dreaming. He opened the door noiselessly andlistened. It was Pete. Martha was answering him. Auntie Nan was callingfrom the dining-room, and Pete was saying "No, no, " in a light way andmoving off. The gate of the garden clicked and the front door was closedquietly. Then Philip shut the door of his own room without a sound. 

A moment later Auntie Nan re-opened it. She was carrying a lightedcandle. 

"Such an extraordinary thing, Philip. Martha says you thought you heardPeter knocking, and, do you know, he must have been coming up the hillat that very moment. He was so strange, too, and looked so wild. Askedif anybody had been here inquiring for him; as if anybody should. Wouldn't have me call to you, and went off laughing about nothing. Really, if I hadn't known him for a sober man----"

Philip felt sick-and chill, and-he began to shiver. An irresistibleimpulse took hold of him. It was like the half-smothered fear whichmakes guilty men go to sit at the inquests on their murdered victims. 

"Something wrong, " he said. "Where are my boots?"

"Going to Elm Cottage, Philip? Pity the coachman drove back to Douglas. Hadn't you better send Martha? Besides, it may be only my fancy. Whyworry in any case? You're too tender-hearted--indeed you are. "

Philip fled downstairs like one who flies from torture. While draggingon his coat in the hall, he began to foresee what was before him. He wasto go to Pete, pretending to know nothing; he was to hear Pete's story, and show surprise; he was to comfort Pete--perhaps to help him in hissearch, for he dared not appear _not_ to help--he was to walk by Pete'sside, looking for what he knew they should not find. He saw himselfcrawling along the streets like a snake, and the part he had to playrevolted him. He went upstairs again. 

"On second thoughts, you must be right, auntie. "

"I'm sure I am. "

"If not, he'll come again. "

"I'm sure he will. "

"If there's anything amiss with Pete, he'll come first to me. "

"There can be nothing amiss except what I say. Just a glass too muchmaybe and no great sin either, considering the day, and how proud he is, for your sake, Philip. I believe in my heart that young man couldn't beprouder and happier if he stood in your own shoes instead. "

"Good-night, Auntie, " said Philip, in a thick gurgle. 

"Good-night, dear. I'm going to bed, and mind you go yourself. "

Being alone, Philip found himself leaning against the mantelpiece andlooking across at his father's picture. He began to contrast his fatherwith himself. He was a success, his father had been a failure. Atseven-and-twenty he was Deemster at all events; at thirty his father haddied a broken man. He had got what he had worked for; he had recoveredthe place of his people; and yet how mean a man he was compared to himwho had done nothing and lost all. 

Failure was all that his father had had to reproach himself with; buthe had to accuse himself of dishonour as well. His father's offence hadbeen a fault; his own was a crime. If his father had been willing tobetray love and friendship, he might have succeeded. Because he himselfhad been true to neither, he had not failed. The very excess of hisfather's virtues had kept him down. Every act of his own selfishnesshad pushed him up. His father had thought first of love and truth andan upright life, and last of money and rank and applause. The world hadrenounced his father because his father had first renounced the world. But it had opened its arms to him, and followed him with shouts andcheers, and loaded him with honours. And yet, miserable man, better bedown in the ooze and slime of a broken life, better be dead and in thegrave--for the dead in his grave must despise him. 

An awful picture rose before Philip. It was a picture of himself in thetime to come. An old man--great, powerful, perhaps even beloved, maybeworshipped, but heart-dead, tottering on to the grave, and the mockeryof a gorgeous funeral, with crowds and drums and solemn music. Thensuddenly a great silence, as if the snow had begun to fall, and a greatwhite light, and an awful voice crying, "Who is this that comes withdust for a bleeding heart, and ashes for a living soul?"

Philip screamed aloud at the vision, as piece by piece he put ittogether. His cry died off with a tingle in the china ornaments of themantelpiece, and he remembered where he was. Then two gentle taps cameto the door of his room. He composed himself a little, snatched up abook, and cried "Come in!"

It was Auntie Nan. She was in her night-dress and night-cap. A candlewas in her hand, and the flame was shaking. 

"Whatever's to do, my child?" she said. 

"Only reading aloud, Auntie. Did I awaken you?"

"But you screamed, Philip. "

"Macbeth, Auntie. See, the banquet scene. He has become king, you know, but his conscience----"

He stopped. The little lady looked at him dubiously and made a pullat the string of her night-cap, causing it to fall aside and give agrotesque appearance to her troubled old face. 

"Take a little brandy, dear. I left it here on the dressing-table. "

"Don't trouble about me, Auntie. Good-night again. There! go back tobed. "

Half coaxing, half forcing her, he drew her to the door, and she wentout slowly, reluctantly, doubtfully, the wandering strings of her captrailing on her shoulders, and her bare feet nipping up the bottom ofthe night-dress behind her. 

Philip looked at the book he had snatched up in his haste. What had putthat book of all books into his hand? What had brought him to that roomof all rooms? And on that night of all nights? What devil out of hellhad tempted Auntie Nan to torture him? He would not stay; he would goback to his own bed. 

Out on the landing he heard a low voice. It came from Auntie Nan's room. A spear of candle-light shot from her door, which was ajar. He pausedand looked in. The white night-dress was by the bedside, the night-capwas buried in the counterpane. A cat had established itself beside it, and was purring softly. Auntie Nan was on her knees. Philip heard hisown name----

"God bless my Philip in the great place to which he has been called thisday. Give him wisdom and strength and peace!"

Holy woman, with angels hovering over you, who dared to think of devilstempting your innocence and love?

Philip went back to his father's room. He began to reconcile himselfto his position. Though he had been extolling his father at his ownexpense, what had he done but realise his father's hopes. And, afterall, he could not have acted differently. At no point could he havebehaved otherwise than he had. What had he to accuse himself for? Ifthere had been sin, he had been dragged into it by blind powers which hecould not command. And what was true of himself was also true of Kate. 

Ah! he could see her now. She was gone where he had sent her. Therewere tears in her beautiful eyes, but time would wipe them away. Theduplicity of her old life was over; the corroding deceit, the dailytorment, the hourly infidelity--all were left behind. If there wasremorse, it was the fault of destiny; and if she was suffering the pangsof shame, she was a woman, and she would bear it cheerfully for the sakeof the man she loved. She was going through everything for him. Heavenbless her! In spite of man and man's law, she was his love, his darling, his wife--yes, his wife--by right of nature and of God; and, come whatwould, he should cling to her to the last. 

Suddenly a thick voice cut through the still air of the night. 

"Philip!"

It was Pete at last He was calling up at the window from the path below. Philip groaned and covered his face with his hands. 

"Philip!"

With rigid steps Philip walked to the window and threw up the sash. Itwas starlight, and the branches were bending in the night air. 

"Is it you, Pete?"

"Yes, it's me. I was seeing the lamp, so I knew you war'n in bed at all. Studdying a bit, it's like, eh? I thought I wouldn't waken the house, but just shout up and tell you. "

"What is it, Pete?" said Philip. His voice shivered like a sail attacking. 

"Nothing much at all. Only the wife's gone to England over by thenight's steamer. "

"To England?"

"Aw, time for it too, I'm thinking; the wake and narvous she's beenlately. You remember what the doctor was saying yonder everin, ' when wechristened the child? 'Send her out of the island, ' says he, 'and she'llbe coming home another woman. ' Wasn't for going, though. Crying andshouting she wouldn't be laving the lil one. So I had to put out a bitof authority. Of course, a husband's got the right to do that, Philip, eh? Well, I'll be taking the road again. Doing a fine night, isn't it?Make's a man unwilling to go to bed. "

Philip trembled and felt sick. He tried to speak, but could utternothing except an inarticulate noise. As Pete went off, an owl screechedin the glen. Philip drew down the sash, pulled the blind, tugged thecurtains across, stumbled into the middle of the floor, and leanedagainst the bed. 

"Such is the beginning of the end, " he thought. 

The duplicity, the deceit, the daily torment which Kate had left behind, were henceforward to be his own! At one flash, as of lightning, he sawthe path before him. It was over cliffs and chasms and quagmires, wherehis foot might slip at any step. 

His head began to reel. He took the brandy bottle from thedressing-table, poured out half a tumbler, and drained it at onedraught. As he did so, his eyes above the rim of the glass rested on theportrait of his mother over the fireplace. The face as he saw it thenwas no longer the face of the winsome bride. It was the living face ashe remembered it--bleared, bloated, gross, and drunken. She smiled onhim, she beckoned to him. 

It was the beginning of the end indeed. He was his mother's son as wellas his father's. The father had ruled down to that day, but it was theturn of the mother now. He could not resist her. She was alive in hisblood, and he was hers. 

Never before had he touched raw spirits, and the brandy mastered himinstantly. Feeling dizzy, he made an effort to undress and get into bed. He dragged off his coat and his waistcoat, and threw his braces over hisshoulders. Then he stumbled, and he had to lay hold of the bedpost. Hishand grew chill and relaxed its hold. Stupor came over him. He slipped, he slid, he fell, and rolled with outstretched arms on to the floor. Thefire went out and the lamp died down. 

Then the sun came up over the sea. It was a beautiful morning. The townawoke; people hailed each other cheerfully in the streets, and joy-bellsrang from the big church tower for the first court-day of the newDeemster. But the Deemster himself still lay on the floor, with dampforehead and matted hair, behind the blind of the darkened room. 

PART V. MAN AND MAN. 

I. 

It was Saturday, and the market-place was covered with the carts andstalls of the country people. After some feint of eating breakfast, Petelit his pipe, called for a basket, and announced his intention of doingthe marketing. 

"Coming for the mistress, are you, Capt'n?"

"I'm a sort of a grass-widow, ma'am. What's your eggs to-day, MistressCowley?"

"Sixteen this morning, sir, and right ones too. They were telling meyou've been losing her. "

"Give me a shilling's worth, then. Any news over your side, Mag?"

"Two--four--eight--sixteen--it's every appearance we'll be getting aearly harvest, Capt'n. "

"Is it yourself, Liza? And how's your butter to-day?"

"Bad to bate to-day, sir, and only thirteen pence ha'penny. Is the lilone longing for the mistress, Capt'n?"

"I'll take a couple of pounds, then. What for longing at all when it'sgoing bringing up by hand it is? Put it in a cabbage leaf, Liza. "

Thus, with his basket on his arm and his pipe in his mouth, Pete passedfrom stall to stall, chatting, laughing, bargaining, buying, shoutinghis salutations over the general hum and hubbub, as he ploughed his waythrough the crowd, but listening intently watching eagerly, casting outgrapples to catch the anchor he had lost, and feeling all the time thatif any eye showed sign of knowledge, if any one began with "Capt'n, Ican tell you where she is, " he must leap on the man like a tiger, andstrangle the revelation in his throat. 

Next day, Sunday, his friends from Sulby came to quiz and to question. He was lounging in his shirt-sleeves on a deck-chair in his ship'scabin, smoking a long pipe, and pretending to be at ease and at peacewith all the world. 

"Fine morning, Capt'n, " said John the Clerk. 

"It _is_ doing a fine morning, John, " said Pete. 

"Fine on the sea, too, " said Jonaique. 

"Wonderful fine on the sea, Mr. Jelly. "

"A nice fair wind, though, if anybody was going by the packet toLiverpool. Was it as good, think you, for the mistress on Friday night, Mr. Quilliam?"

"I'll gallantee, " said Pete. 

"Plucky, though--I wouldn't have thought it of the same woman--Iwouldn't raelly, " said Jonaique. 

"Alone, too, and landing on the other side so early in the morning, "said John the Clerk. 

"Smart, uncommon! It isn't every woman would have done it, " said Kellythe Postman. 

"Aw, we've mighty boys of women deese days--we have dough, " snuffled theconstable, and then they all laughed together. 

Pete watched their wheedling, fawning, and whisking of the tail, andthen he said, "Chut! What's there so wonderful about a woman going byherself to Liverpool when she's got somebody waiting at the stage tomeet her?"

The laughing faces lengthened suddenly. "And had she, then, " said Johnthe Clerk. 

Pete puffed furiously, rolled in his seat, laughed like a man with amouth full of water, and said, "Why, sartenly--my uncle, of coorse. "

Jonaique wrinkled his forehead. "Uncle, " he said, with a click in histhroat. 

"Yes, my Uncle Joe, " said Pete. 

Jonaique looked helplessly across at John the Clerk. John the Clerkpuckered up his mouth as if about to whistle, and then said, in afaltering way, "Well, I can't really say I've ever heard tell of yourUncle Joe before, Capt'n. "

"No?" said Pete, with a look of astonishment. "Not my Uncle Joseph? Theone that left the island forty years ago and started in the coach andcab line? Well, that's curious. Where's he living? Bless me, where'sthis it is, now? Chut! it's clane forgot at me. But I saw him myselfcoming home from Kimberley, and since then he's been writing constant. 'Send her across, ' says he; 'she'll be her own woman again likewinking. ' And you never heard tell of him? Not Uncle Joey with the baldhead? Well, well! A smart ould man, though. Man alive, the lively he is, too, and the laughable, and the good company. To look at that man's faceyou'd say the sun was shining reg'lar. Aw, it's fine times she'll behaving with Uncle Joe. No woman could be ill with yonder ould man about. He'd break your face with laughing if it was bursting itself with asquinsey. And you never heard tell of my Uncle Joe, of Scotland Road, down Clarence Dock way? To think of that now!"

They went off with looks of perplexity, and Pete turned into the house. "They're trying to catch me; they're wanting to shame my poor lil Kirry. I must keep her name sweet, " he thought. 

The church bells had begun to ring, and he was telling himself that, heavy though his heart might be, he must behave as usual. 

"She'll be going walking to church herself this morning, Nancy, " hesaid, putting on his coat, "so I'll just slip across to chapel. "

He was swinging up the path on his return home to dinner, when he heardvoices inside the house. 

"It's shocking to see the man bittending this and bittending that. " Itwas Nancy; she was laying the table; there was a rattle of knives andforks. "Bittending to ate, but only pecking like a robin; bittending tosleep, but never a wink on the night; bittending to laugh and tojoke and wink, and a face at him like a ghose's, and his hair allthrough-others. Walking about from river to quay, and going on with allthat rubbish--it's shocking, ma'am, it's shocking!"

"Hush-a-bye, hush-a-bye!" It was the voice of Grannie, low and quavery;she was rocking the cradle. 

"You can't spake to him neither but he's scolding you scandalous. 'I'mnot used of being cursed at, ' I'm saying, 'and is it myself that has tobe tould to respect my own Kitty?' But cry shame on her I must whenI look at the lil bogh there, and it so helpless and so beautiful. 'Stericks, you say? Yes, indeed, ma'am, and if I stay here much longer, it's losing myself I will be, too, with his bittending and bittending. "

"Lave him to it, Nancy. His poor head's that moidered and mixed it'slike a black pudding--there's no saying what's inside of it. But he'sgood, though; aw, right good he is for all, and the world's cold andcruel. Lave him alone, woman; lave him alone, poor boy. "

The child awoke and cried, and, under cover of this commotion and thecrowing and cooing of the two women, Pete stepped back to the gate, clashed it hard, swung noisily up the gravel, and rolled into the housewith a shout and a laugh. 

"Well, well! Grannie, my gough! Who'd have thought of seeing Grannie, now? And how's the ould angel to-day? So you've got the lil one there?Aw, you rogue, you. You're on Grannie's lap, are you? How's Cæsar? Andhow's Mrs. Gorry doing? Look at that now--did you ever? Opening oneeye first to make sure if the world's all right. The child's wise. Coo--oo--oo! Smart with the dinner, Nancy--wonderful hungry the chapel'smaking a man. Coo--oo! What's she like, now, Grannie?"

"When I set her to my knee like this I can see my own lil Kirry again, ''said Grannie, looking down ruefully, rocking the child with one knee anddoubling over it to kiss it. 

"So she's like the mammy, is she?" said Pete, blowing at the baby andtickling its chin with his broad forefinger. "Mammy's gone to the oulduncle's--hasn't she, my lammie?"

At that Grannie fell to rocking herself as well as the child, andto singing a hymn in a quavery voice. Then with a rattle and a rush, throwing off his coat and tramping the floor in his shirt-sleeves, whileNancy dished up the dinner, Pete began to enlarge on Kate's happiness inthe place where she had gone. 

"Tremenjous grand the ould man's house is--you wouldn't believe. Areg'lar Dempster's palace. The grandeur on it is a show and a pattern. Plenty to ate, plenty to drink, and a boy at the door with white buttonsdotting on his brown coat, bless you like--like a turnip-field inwinter. Then the man himself; goodness me, the happy that man is--HappyJoe they're calling him. Wouldn't trust but he'll be taking Kate to atheaytre. Well, and why not, if a person's down a bit? A merry touch andgo--where's the harm at all? Fact is, Grannie, that's why we couldn'ttell you Kate was going. Cæsar would have been objecting. He's fitenough for it--ha, ha, ha!"

Grannie looked up at Pete as he laughed, and the broad rose withered onhis face. 

"H'm! h'm!" he said, clearing his throat; "I'm bad dreadful wanting asmook. " And past the dinner-table, now smoking and ready, he slitheredout of the house. 

Cæsar was Pete's next visitor. He said nothing of Kate, and neither didPete mention Uncle Joe. The interview was a brief and grim one. It wasa lie that Ross Christian had been sent by his father to ask for a loan, but it was true that Peter Christian was in urgent need of money. Hewanted six thousand pounds as mortgage on Ballawhaine. Had Pete gotso much to lend? No need for personal intercourse; Cæsar would act asintermediary. 

Pete took only a moment for consideration. Yes, he had got the money, and he would lend it. Cæsar looked at Pete; Pete looked at Cæsar. "He'stalking all this rubbish, " thought Cæsar, "but he knows where the girlhas gone to. He knows who's taken her; he manes to kick the rascal outof his own house neck and crop; and right enough, too, and the Lord'sown vengeance. "

But Pete's thoughts were another matter. "The ould man won't live toredeem it, and the young one will never try--it'll do for Philip someday. "

II. 

For three days Pete bore himself according to his wont, thinking tosilence the evil tongues of the little world about him, and keep sweetand alive the dear name which they were waiting to befoul and destroy. By Tuesday morning the strain had become unbearable. On pretences ofbusiness, of pleasure, of God knows what folly and nonsense, he began toscour the island. He visited every parish on the north, passedthrough every village, climbed every glen, found his way into everyout-of-the-way hut, and scraped acquaintance with every old woman livingalone. Sometimes he was up in the vague fore-dawn, creeping through thequiet streets like a thief, going silently, stealthily, warily, untilhe came to the roads, or the fields, or the open Curragh, and could giveswing to his step, and breath to his lungs, and voice to the cries thathurst from him. 

Two long weeks he spent in this wild quest, and meanwhile he was ashappy as a boy to all outward seeming--whistling, laughing, chaffing, bawling, talking nonsense, any nonsense, and kicking up his heels likea kid. But wheresoever he went, and howsoever early he started on hiserrands, he never failed to be back at home at seven o'clock in theevening--washed, combed, in his slippers and shirt-sleeves, smoking along clay over the garden gate as the postman went by with the letters. 

"She'll write, " he told himself. "When she's mending a bit she'llaise our mind and write. 'Dear ould Pete, excuse me for not writingafore'--that'll he the way of it. Aw, trust her, trust her. "

But day followed day, and no letter came from Kate. Ten evenings runninghe smoked over the gate, leisurely, largely, almost languidly, hutalways watching for the peak of the postman's cap as it turned thecorner by the Court-house, and following the toes of his foot as theystepped off the curb, to see if they pointed in his direction--and thenturning aside with a deep breath and a smothered moan that ended in arattle of the throat and a pretence at spitting. 

The postman saw him as he went by, and his little eyes twinkledtreacherously. 

"Nothing for you yet, Capt'n, " he said at length. 

"Chut!" said Pete, with a mighty puff of smoke; "my business isn't doneby correspondence, Mr. Kelly. "

"Aw, no; but when a man's wife's away----" began the postman. 

"Oh, I see, " said Pete, with a look of intelligence, and then, witha lofty wave of the hand, "She's like her husband, Mr. Kelly--notbothering much with letters at all. "

"You'll be longing for a line, though, Capt'n--that's only natural. "

"No news is good news--I can lave it with her. "

"Of coorse, that's truth enough, yes! But still and for all, a taste ofa letter--it's doing no harm, Capt'n--aisy writ, too, and sweet to getsometimes, you know--shows a woman isn't forgetting a man when she'saway. "

"Mr. Kelly! Mr. Kelly!" said Pete, with his hand before his face, palmoutwards. 

"Not necessary? Well, I lave it with you. Good-night, Capt'n. "

"Good-night to you, sir, " said Pete. 

He had laughed and tut-tutted, and lifted his eyebrows and his hands inmock protest and a pretence of indifference, but the postman's talkhad cut him to the quick. "People are suspecting, " he thought. "They'resaying things. "

This made him swear, but a thought came behind that made him sweatinstead. "Philip will be hearing them. They'll be telling him shedoesn't write to me; that I don't know where she is; that she has leftme, and that she's a bad woman. "

To make Kate stand well with Philip was an aim that had no rival butone in Pete's reckoning--to make Philip stand well with Kate. Out ofthe shadow-land of his memory of the awful night of his bereavement, arecollection, which had been lying dead until then, came back now inits grave-clothes to torture him. It was what Cæsar had said of Philip'sfight with Ross Christian. Philip himself had never mentioned it--thatwas like him. But when evil tongues told of Ross and hinted at mischief, Philip would know something already; he would be prepared, perhaps hewould listen and believe. 

Two days longer Pete sat in the agony of this new terror and the doggedimpatience of his old hope. "She'll write. She'll not lave me muchlonger. " But she did not write, and on the second night, beforereturning to the house from the gate, he had made his plan. He mustsilence scandal at all hazards. However his own heart might bleed withdoubts and fears and misgivings, Philip must never cease to think thatKate was good and sweet and true. 

"Off to bed, Nancy, " he cried, heaving into the hall like a man indrink. "I've work to do to-night, and want the house to myself. "

"Goodness me, is it yourself that's talking of bed, then?" said Nancy. "Seven in the everin', too, and the child not an hour out of my hands?And dear knows what work it is if you can't be doing it with good peopleabout you. "

"Come, get off, woman; you're looking tired mortal. The lil one'sragging you ter'ble. But what's it saying, Nancy--bed is half bread. Truth enough, too, and the other half is beauty. Get off, now. You'respoiling your complexion dreadful--I'll never be getting that husbandfor you. "

Thus coaxing her, cajoling her, watching her, dodging her, naggingher, driving her, he got her off to bed at last. Being alone, he lookedaround, listened, shut the doors of the parlour and the kitchen, put thebolt on the door of the stairs, the chain on the door of the porch, took off his boots, and went about on tiptoe. Then he blew out the lamp, filled and trimmed and relit it, going down on the hearthrug to catchthe light of the fire. After that he settled the table, drew up thearmchair, took from a corner cupboard pens and ink, a blotting pad, a packet of notepaper and envelopes, a stick of sealing wax, a box ofmatches, a postage stamp, the dictionary, and the exercise-book in whichKate had taught him to write. 

As the clock was striking nine, Pete was squaring himself at the table, pen in hand, and his tongue in his left cheek. Half an hour later he wasstartled, by an interruption. 

"Who's there?" he shouted in a ferocious voice, leaping up with a lookof terror, like a man caught in a crime. It was only Nancy, who had comecreeping down the stairs under pretence of having forgotten the baby'sbottle. He made a sort of apologetic growl, handed the flat bottlethrough an opening like a crack, and ordered her back to bed. 

"Goodness sakes!" said Nancy, going upstairs. "Is it coining money theman is? Or is it whisky itself that's doing on him?"

Two hours afterwards Pete fancied he saw a face at the window, and hecaught up a stick, unchained the door, and rushed into the garden. Itwas no one; the town lay asleep; the night was all but airless; onlythe faintest breeze moved the leaves of the trees; there was no noiseanywhere, except the measured beat of the sea in its everlasting comingand going on the shore. 

Stepping back into the house, where the fire chirped and the kettle sangand all else was quiet, he resumed his task, and somewhere in the darkhours before the dawn he finished it. The fingers of his right hand werethen inky up to the first joint, his collar was open, his neck was bare, his eyes were ablaze, the cords on his face were big and blue, greatbeads of cold sweat were standing on his forehead, and the carpet aroundhis chair was littered as white as if a snowstorm had fallen on it. 

He went down on his knees and gathered up these remnants and burnt them, with the air of a man destroying the evidences of his guilt. Then he putback the ink and the dictionary, the blotting pad and sealing wax, andreplaced them with a loaf of bread, a table knife, a bottle of brandy, and a drinking glass. After that he made up the fire with a shovel ofslack, that it might burn until morning; removed the lamp from the tableto the window recess that it might cast its light into the darknessoutside; and unchained the outer door that a wanderer of the night, ifany such there were, might enter without knocking. 

He did all this in the absent manner of a man who did it nightly. Thenunbolting the staircase door, and listening a moment for the breathingof the sleepers overhead, he crept into the dark parlour overlooking theroad, and lay down on the sofa to sleep. 

It was done! Pete's great scheme was afoot! The mighty secret which hehad enshrouded with such awful mystery lay in an envelope in theinside breast-pocket of his monkey-jacket, signed, sealed, stamped, andaddressed. 

_Pete had written a letter to himself_. 

III. 

Next day the crier was crying: "Great meeting--Manx fishermen--on Zigzagat Peel when boats come in to-morrow morning--protest agen harbourtaxes. "

"The thing itself, " thought Pete, with his hand pressed hard on theoutside of his breast-pocket. At five o'clock in the afternoon he wentdown to the harbour, where his Nickey lay by the quay, shouted to themaster, "Take an odd man tonight, Mr. Kemish?" then dropped to the deckand helped to fetch the boat into the bay. 

They had to haul her out by poles alone the quay wall, for the tidewas low, and there was no breakwater. It was still early in the herringseason, but the fishing was in full swing. Five hundred boats from allparts were making for the fishing round. It lay off the south-west tailof the island. Before Pete's boat reached it the fleet were sittingtogether, like a flight of sea-fowl, and the sun was almost gone. 

The sun went down that night over the hills of Mourne very angry and redin its setting; the sky to the north-west was dark and sullen; the roundline of the sea was bleared and broken, but there was little wind, andthe water was quiet. 

"Bring to and shoot, " cried Pete, and they dropped sail to the landwardof the fleet, off the shoulder of the Calf Island, with its two lightsmaking one. The boat was brought head to the wind, with the flowing tideveering against her; the nets were shot over the starboard quarter, andthey dropped astern; the bow was swung round to the line of the floatingmollags, and boat and nets began to drift together. 

Supper was served, the pump was worked, the lights were run up, thesmall boat was sent round with a flare to fright away the evil spirits, and then the night came down--a dark night, without moon or stars, shutting out the island, though it stood so near, and even the rocksof the Hen and Chicken. The first man for the look-out took up his onehour's watch at the helm, and the rest went below. 

Pete's bunk was under the binnacle, and the light of its lamp fell ona stamped envelope which he took out of his breast-pocket from time totime that he might read the inscription. It ran--

 Capn Peatr Quilliam, Lm Cottig Ramsey I O Man. 

He looked at it lovingly, fondly, yearningly, yet with a certain awe, too, as if it were the casket of some hidden treasure, and he hardlyknew what it contained. The dim-lit cabin was quiet, the net boilersparched drops of hot water at intervals, the fire of the cooking stoveslid and fell, the men breathed heavily from unseen beds, and the seawashed as the boat rolled. 

"What's she saying, I wonder! I wonder! God bless her!" he mumbled, andthen he, too, fell asleep. 

Two hours before hauling, they proved the fishing by taking in a "pair"of the net, found good herring, and blew the horn as signal that theywere doing well. Then out of the black depths around, wherein no boatcould be seen, the lights of other boats came floating silently astern, until the company about them in the darkness was like a little city ofthe sea and the night. 

At the first peep of morning over the round shoulder of the Calf, thelittle city awoke. There were the clicks of the capstan, and the shoutsof the men as the nets came back to the boats, heavy and white withfish. All being aboard, the men went down on the deck, according totheir wont, every man on his knee with his face in his cap, and thenleapt up with a shout (perhaps an oath), swung to the wind, hoisted thesquare sails, and made for home. The dark northwest was lowering by thistime, and the sea was beginning to jump. 

"Breakfast, boys, " sang out Pete, with his head above the companion, andall but the helmsman went below. There was a pot full of the drop-fish, and every man ate his warp of herring. It had been a great night'sfishing. Some of the boats were full to the mouth, and all had plenty. 

"We'll do middling if we get a market, " said Pete. 

"We've got to get home first, " said the master, and at the same momenta sea struck the windward quarter with the force of a sledge-hammer, andthe block at the masthead began to sing. 

"We'll run for Peel this morning, boys, " said Pete, smothering his voicein a mouthful. 

"Peel?" said the master, shooting out his lip. "They've got no harbourthere at all with a cat's paw of a breeze, let alone a northwester. "

"I'm for going up to the meeting, " said Pete in an incoherent way. 

Then they tacked before the rising gale, and went off with the fleetas it swirled like a flight of gulls abreast of the wind. The sea cametumbling down like a shoal of seahogs, and washed the faces of the menas they sat in oilskins on the hatch-head, shaking the herring out ofthe nets into the hold. 

But their work only began when they came into Peel. The tide was down;there was no breakwater; the neck of the harbour was narrow, and fourhundred boats were coming to take shelter and to land their cargoes. Itwas a scene of tumult and confusion--shouting, swearing, and fightingamong the men, and crushing and cranching among the boats as they nosedtheir way to the harbour mouth, threw ropes on to the quay, where fiftyropes were round one post already, or cast anchors up the bank of thecastle rock, which was steep and dangerous to lie on. 

Pete got landed somehow, but his Nickey with half the fleet turnedtail and went round the island. As he leapt ashore, the helplessharbour-master, who had been bellowing over the babel through a crackedtrumpet, turned to him and said, "For the Lord's sake, Capt'n Quilliam, if you've got a friend that can lend us a hand, go off to the meeting atseven o'clock. "

"I mane to, " said Pete, but he had something else to do first. It wasthe task that had brought him to Peel, and no eye must see him do it. Slowly and slyly, like one who does a doubtful thing and pretends tobe doing nothing, he went stealing through the town--behind the oldCourt-house and up Castle Street, into the market-place, and across itto the line of shops which make the principal thoroughfare. 

At one of these shops, a little single-roomed place, with its smallshutter still up, but the door half open and a noise of stamping goingon inside, he stopped in a lounging way, half twisting on his heel as ifidly looking back. It was the Post-Office. 

With a stealthy look around, he put a trembling hand into hisbreast-pocket, drew out the letter, screened it by the flat of his bigpalm, and posted it. Then he turned hurriedly away, and was gone in amoment, like a man who feared pursuit, down a steep and tortuous alleythat led to the shore. The morning was early; the shops were not yetopen; only the homes of the fishermen were putting out curling wreathsof smoke; the silent streets echoed to his lightest footstep. 

But the shore road was busy enough. Fishermen in sea-boots andsou'westers, with oilskin over one arm and a string of herring in theother hand, were trooping from the harbour up to the Zigzag by the rockcalled the Creg Malin. It was at the end of the bay, where cliff andbeach and sea together form a bag like the cod-end of the trawl net. 

"It's not the fishermen at all--it's the farmers they're thinking of, "said one. 

"You're right, " said Pete, "and it's some of ourselves that's to blamefor it. "

"How's that?" said somebody. 

"Aisy enough, " said Pete. "When I came home from Kimberly I met an ouldfisherman--_you_ know the man, Billy--well, _you_ do, Dan--Phil Nelly, of Ramsey. 'How's the fishing, Phil?' says I. He gave me a Hm! and aheise of his neck, and 'I'm not fishing no more, ' says he. 'The wife'skeeping a private hotel, ' says he. 'And what are you doing yourself, 'says I. 'I'm walking about, ' says he, and, gough bless me, if theman wasn't wearing a collar and carrying a stick, and prating aboutadvertising the island, if you plaze. "

At the sound of Pete's voice a group of the men gathered about him. "That's not the worst neither, " said he. "The other day I tumbledover Tom Hommy--_you_ know Tom Hommy, yes, you do, the lil deaf man upBallure. He was lying in the hedge by the public-house, three sheets inthe wind. 'Why aren't you out with the boats, Tom?' says I. 'Wash forshould I go owsh wish the boash, when the childer can earn more on theroads?' says the drunken wastrel. 'And is yonder your boys and girlstossing summersaults at the tail of the trippers' car?' says I. 'Yesh, 'says he; 'and they'll earn more in a day at their caperings than theirfather in a week at the herrings. '"

"I believe it enough, " said one. "The man's about right, " said another;and a querulous voice behind said, "Wonderful the prosperity of theisland since the visitors came to it. "

"Get out with you, there, for a disgrace to the name of Manxman, " sangout Pete over the heads of those that stood between. "With the farminggoing to the dogs and the fishing going to the divil, d'ye know whatthe ould island's coming to? It's coming to an island of lodging-housekeepers and hackney-car drivers. Not the Isle of Man at all, but theIsle of Manchester. "

There was a tremendous shout at this last word. In another minute Petewas lifted shoulder high over the crowd on to the highest turn of thezigzag path, and bidden to go on. There were five hundred faces belowhim, putting out hot breath in the cool morning air. The sun wasshooting over the cliffs a canopy as of smoke above their heads. On thetop of the crag the sea-fowl were jabbering, and the white sea itselfwas climbing on the beach. 

"Men, " said Pete, "there's not much to say. This morning's work saideverything. We'd a right fishing last night, hadn't we? Four hundredboats came up to Peel, and we hadn't less than ten maise apiece. That's--you that's smart at your figguring and ciphering, spake outnow--that's four thousand maise isn't it?" (Shouts of "Right. ") "Aw, you're quick wonderful. No houlding you at all when it's moneythat's in. Four thousand maise ready and waiting for the steamers toEngland--but did we land it? No, nor half of it neither. The otherhalf's gone round to other ports, too late for the day's sailing, andhalf of that half will be going rotten and getting chucked back into thesea. That's what the Manx fishermen have lost this morning because theyhaven't harbours to shelter them, and yet they're talking of levyingharbour dues. "

"Man veen, he's a boy!"--"He's all that"--"Go it, Capt'n. What are weto do?"

"Do?" cried Pete. "I'll tell you what you're to do. This is Friday. NextThursday is old Midsummer Day. That's Tynwald Coort day. Come to St. John's on Thursday--every man of you come--come in your sea-boots andyour jerseys--let the Governor see you mane it. 'Give us raisonablehope of harbour improvement and we'll pay, ' says you. 'If you don't, wewon't; and if you try to make us, we're two thousand strong, and we'llrise like one man. 'Don't be freckened; you've a right to be bould in agood cause. I'll get somebody to spake for you. You know the man I mane. He's stood the fisherman's friend before to-day, and he isn't goingtaking off his cap to the best man that's setting foot on Tynwald Hill. "

It was agreed. Between that day and Tynwald day Pete was to enlist thesympathy of Philip, and to go to Port St. Mary to get the co-operationof the south-side fishermen. The town was astir by this time, the sunwas on the beach, and the fishermen trooped off to bed. 

IV. 

Pete was back in his ship's cabin in the garden the same evening witha heart the heavier because for one short hour it had forgotten itstrouble. The flowers were opening, the roses were creeping over theporch, the blackbird was singing at the top of the tree; but his ownflower of flowers, his rose of roses, his bird of birds--where was she?Summer was coming, coming, coming--coming with its light, coming withits music, coming with its sweetness--but she came not. 

The clock struck seven inside the house, and Pete, pipe in hand, swungover to the gate. No need to-night to watch for the postman's peak, noneed to trace his toes. 

"A letter for you, Mr. Quilliam. "

Hearing these words, Pete, his eyes half shut as if dosing in thesunset, wakened himself with a look of astonishment. 

"What? For me, is it? A letter, you say? Aw, I see, " taking it andturning it in his hand, "just'a line from the mistress, it's like. Well, well! A letter for me, if you plaze, " and he laughed like a man muchtickled. 

He was in no hurry. He rammed his dead pipe with his finger, lit itagain, sucked it, made it quack, drew a long breath, and then saidquietly, "Let's see what's her news at all. "

He opened the letter leisurely, and read bits of it aloud, as if readingto himself, but holding the postman while he did so in idle talk on theother side of the gate. "And how are you living to-day, Mr. Kelly? Aw, h'm--_getting that much better_ it's extraordinary--Yes, a nice everin', very, Mr. Kelly, nice, nice--_that happy and comfortable and UncleJoe is that good_--heavy bag at you to-night, you say? Aw, heavy, yes, heavy--_love to Grannie and all inquiring friends_--nothing, Mr. Kelly, nothing--just a scribe of a line, thinking a man might be gettingunaisy. She needn't, though--she needn't. But chut! It's nothing. Writing a letter is nothing to her at all. Why, she'd be knocking thatoff, bless you, " holding out a half sheet of paper, "in less than anhour and a half. Truth enough, sir. " Then, looking at the letter again, "What's this, though? PN. They're always putting a P. N. At the bottomof a letter, Mr. Kelly. P. N. --_I was expecting to be home before, butI wouldn't get away for Uncle Joe taking me to the theaytres_. Ha, ha, ha! A mighty boy is Uncle Joe. But, Mr. Kelly, Mr. Kelly, " with a solemnlook, "not a word of this to Cæsar?"

The postman had been watching Pete out of the corners of his ferreteyes. "Do you know, Capt'n, what Black Tom is saying?"

"What's that?" said Pete, with a sudden change of tone. 

"He's saying there _is_ no Uncle Joe. "

"No Uncle Joe?" cried Pete, lifting voice and eyebrows together. 

The postman signified assent with a nod of his peak. 

"Well, that's rich, " said Pete, in a low breath, raising his face asif to invoke the astonishment of the sky itself. "No Uncle Joe?" herepeated, in a tone of blank incredulity. "Ask the man if it's in bedhe is. Why, " and Pete's eyes opened and closed like a doll's, "he'll besaying there's no Auntie Joney next. "

The postman looked up inquiringly. 

"Never heard of Auntie Joney--Uncle Joe's wife? No? Well, really, really--is it sleeping I am? Not Auntie Joney, the Primitive? Aw, a goodould woman as ever lived. A saint, if ever the like was in, and died atriumphant death, too. No theaytres for her, though. She won't bemaneherself. No, but she's going to chapel reg'lar, and getting up in themiddle of every night of life to say her prayers. 'Deed she is. So BlackTom says there is no Uncle Joe?"

Pete gave a long whistle, then stopped it sudden with his mouth agape, and said from his throat, "I see. "

He put his mouth close to the postman's ear and whispered, "Ever hearBlack Tom talk of the fortune he's expecting through the Coort ofChancery?" The postman's peak bobbed downwards. "You have? Tom'sthinking to grab it all for himself. Ha, ha! That's it! Ha, ha!"

The postman went off blinking and giggling, and Pete reeled up thepath, biting his lip, and muttering, "Keep it up, Pete, keep it up--it'sploughing a hard furrow, though. " Then aloud, "A letter from themistress, Nancy. "

Nancy met him in the porch, clearing her fingers, thick with dough. 

"There you are, " said Pete, flapping the letter on one hand. 

"Good sakes alive!" said Nancy. "Did it come by the post, though, Pete?"

"Look at the stamp, woman, and see for yourself, " said Pete. 

"My goodness me! From Kirry, you say?"

"Let me in, then, and I'll be reading you bits. "

Nancy went back to her kneading with looks of bewilderment, and Petefollowed her, opening the letter. 

"She's well enough, Nancy--no need to read that part at all. But see, "running his forefinger along the writing "'_Kisses for the baby, andlove to Nancy, and tell Grannie not to be fretting?_ et setterer, etsetterer. See?"

Nancy looked up at her thumping and thunging, and said, "Did Mr. Kellygive it you?"

"He did that, " said Pete, "this minute at the gate. It's his time, isn'tit?"

Nancy glanced at the clock. "I suppose it must be right, " she said. 

"Take it in your hand, woman, " said Pete. 

Nancy cleaned her hands and took the letter, turned it over and felt itin her fingers as if it had been linen. "And this is from Kirry, is it?It's nice, too. I haven't much schooling, Pete, but I'm asking no betterthan a letter myself. It's like a peppermint in your frock on Sunday--ifyou're low you're always knowing it's there, anyway. " She looked at itagain, and then she said, like one who says a strange thing, "I once hada letter myself--'deed I had, Pete. It was from father. He went down inthe _Black Sloop_, trading oranges with the blacks in their own islandsomewhere. They put into the port of London one day when they werehaving a funeral there. What's this one they were calling after the bigboots--Wellingtons, that's the man. They were writing home all aboutit--the people, and the chariots, and the fighting horses, and the musicin the streets and the Cateedrals--and we were never hearing anotherword from them again--never. 'To Miss Annie Cain--your affecshunetfather, Joe Cain. ' I knew it all off--every word--and I kept it tenyears in my box under the lavender. "

Philip came later. He was looking haggard and tired; his face waspallid and drawn; his eyes were red, quick, and wandering; his hair wasneglected and ragged; his step was wavering and uncertain. 

"Gough alive, man, " cried Pete, "didn't you take oath to do justicebetween man and man?"

Philip looked up with alarm. "Well?" he said. 

"Well, " cried Pete, with a frown and a clenched fist, "there's one manyou're not doing justice to. "

"Who's that?" said Philip with eyes down. 

"Yourself, " said Pete, and Philip drew a long breath. Pete laughed, protested that Philip must not work so hard, and then plunged into anaccount of the morning's meeting. 

"Tremenjous! Talk of enthusiasm! Man veen, man veen! Didn't I saywe'd rise as one man? We will, too. We're going up to Tynwald Coort onTynwald day, two thousand strong. Tynwald Coort? Yes, and why not?Drum and fife bands, bless you--two of them. Not much music, maybe, butthere'll be noise enough. It's all settled. Southside fishermen arecoming up Foxal way; north-side men going down by Peel. Meeting underHarry Delany's tree, and going up to the hill on mass (en masse). Nobawling, though--no singing out--no disturbing the Coort at all. "

"Well, well! What then?" said Philip. 

"Then we're wanting you to spake for us, Dempster. Aw, nothingmuch--nothing to rag you at all. Just tell them flat we won't--that'lldo. "

"It's a serious matter, Pete. I must think it over. "

"Aw, think and think enough, Dempster--but mind you do it, though. Theboys are counting on you. 'He's our anchor and he'll hould, ' they'resaying; But, bother the harbours, anyway, " reaching his hand forsomething on the mantelpiece. "What do you think?"

"Nay, " said Philip, with a long breath of weariness and relief. 

"Guess, then, " said Pete, putting his hand behind him. 

Philip shook his head and smiled feebly. Then, with the expression of aboy on his birthday, Pete leaned over Philip, and said in a half-whisperacross the top of his head, "I've heard from Kate. "

Philip turned ghastly, his lip trembled, and he stammered, "You've--you've--heard from Kate, have you?"

"Look at that, " cried Pete, and round came the letter with a triumphantsweep. 

Philip's respiration grew difficult and noisy. Slowly, very slowly, hereached out his hand, took the letter, and looked at its superscription. 

"Read it--read it, " said Pete; "no secrets at all. "

With head down and eyebrows hiding his eyes, with trembling handsthat tore the envelope, Philip took out the letter and read it inpassages--broken, blurred, smudged, as by the smoke of a fo'c'stle lamp. 

 "Deerest peat i am gettin that much better. . . I am that happy and comforbel. . . Sometimes i am longing for a sight of the lil ones swate face. . . No more at present. . . Ure own trew wife. "

"Come to the P. N. Yet, Philip?" said Pete. He was on his knees beforethe fire, lighting his pipe with a red coal. 

 "axpectin to be home sune but. . . Give my luv and bess respects to the Dempster when you see him he was so good to me when "were forren the half was never towl you"

"She's not laving a man unaisy, you see, " said Pete. 

Philip could not speak. His throat was choking; his tongue filled hismouth; his eyes were swimming in tears that scorched them. Nancy, whohad been up to Sulby with news of the letter, came in at the moment, andPhilip raised his head. 

"I told my aunt not to expect me to-night, Nancy. Is my room upstairsready?"

"Aw, yes, always ready, your honour, " said Nancy, with a curtsey. 

He got up, with head aside, took a candle from Nancy's hand, excusedhimself to Pete--he was tired, sleepy, had a heavy day to-morrow--said"Good-night, " and went upstairs--stumbling and floundering--tore openhis bedroom door, and clashed it back like a man flying from an enemy. 

Pete thought he had succeeded to admiration, but he looked after Philip, and was not at ease. He had no misgivings. Writing was writing to him, and it was nothing more. But in the deep midnight, Philip, who had notslept, heard a thick voice that was like a sob coming from somewheredownstairs. He opened his door, crept out on to the stairhead, andlistened. The house was dark. In some unseen place the voice wassaying--

"Lord, forgive me for deceaving Philip. I couldn't help it, though;Thou knows, Thyself, I couldn't. A lie's a dirty thing, Lord. It's likechewing dough--it sticks in your throat and chokes you. But I had todo it to save my poor lost lamb, and if I didn't I should go madmyself--Thou knows I should. So forgive me, Lord, for Kirry's sake. Amen. "

The thick voice stopped, the house lay still, then the child awoke ina room beyond, and its thin cry came through the darkness. Philip creptback in terror. 

"This is what _she_ had to go through! O God! My God!"

V. 

Cæsar called next day and took Pete to the office of the High Bailiff, where the business of the mortgage was completed. The deeds ofBallawhaine were then committed to Cæsar's care for custody and safekeeping, and he carried them off to his safe at the mill with a longstride and a face of fierce triumph. 

"The ould Ballawhaine is dying, " he thought; "and if we kick out theyoung one some day, it'll only be the Lord's hand on a rascal. "

On drawing his big cheque, Pete had realised that, with recklessspending, and more reckless giving, he had less than a hundred poundsto his credit. "No matter, " he thought; "Philip will pay me back when hecomes in to his own. "

Grannie was with Nancy at Elm Cottage when Pete returned home. The childwas having its morning bath, and the two women were on their knees ateither side of the tub, cackling and crowing like two old hens over oneegg. 

"Aw, did you _ever_, now, Nancy? 'Deed, no; you never _did_ see such alil angel. Up-a-daisy!"

"Cry I must, Grannie, when I see it looking so beautiful. Warm towels, you say? I'm a girl of this sort--when I get my heart down, I can neverget it up again. Fuller's earth, is it? Here, then. "

"Boo--loo--loo! the bog millish! Nancy, we must be shortening her soon. "

And with that they fell to an earnest council on frocks and petticoats, and other mysteries unread by man. Pete sat and watched and listened. "People will be crying shame on her if they see the Grannie doingeverything, " he thought. 

That night he lounged through the town and examined the shop windows outof the corner of his eye. He was trying to bear himself like a workmanenjoying his Saturday night's ramble in clean clothes, but the streetswere thronged, and he found himself observed. "Not here, " he toldhimself. "I can buy nothing here. Doesn't do to be asleep at all, and aman isn't always in bed when he's sleeping. "

Some hours later, Nancy and the child being upstairs, Pete bethoughthimself of something that was kept at the bottom of a drawer. Going tothe drawer to open it, he found it stiff to his tugging, and it cameback with a jerk, which showed it had not lately been disturbed. Petefound what he looked for, and came upon something beside. It was acardboard box, tied about with a string, which was knotted in a peculiarway. "Kate's knot, " thought Pete with a sigh. He slipped it, and openedthe lid and took out a baby's hood of scarlet plush. "The very thing, "he thought. He held it, mouth open, over his big brown hand, and laughedwith delight. "She's been buying it for the child and never using it. "His eyes glistened. "The _very_ thing, " he thought, and then he tookdown pen and paper to write something to go with it. 

This is what he wrote--

 "For lil Katerin from her Luvin mother"

Then he held it at arm's length and looked at it. The subscriptioncrossed the whole face of a half-sheet of paper. But the triumphantsuccess of his former effort had made him bold. He could not resist thetemptation to write more. So he turned the paper over and wrote on theback--

 "tell pa pa not to wurry about me i aspect to be home sune but dont no ezactly"

His eyes were swimming by the time he got that down, but they brightenedagain as he remembered something. 

 "Weve had grate times ear uncle Jo--"

"Must go on milking that ould cow, " he thought

 "tuk me to sea the prins of Wales yesterda"

He could not help it--he began to take a wild joy in his own inventions. 

 "flags and banns of musick all day and luminerashuns all night it was grand we were top of an umnibuss goin down lord strete and saw him as plane as plane"

"Bless me, " said Pete, dropping his pen, and rubbing his hands inravishing contemplation of his own fiction; "the next thing we hearshe'll be riding in her carriage and' pair. "

He was sobbing a little, for all that, in a low, smothered way, but hecould not deny himself one word more--

 "luv to all enquirin frens and bess respecs to the Dempster if im not forgot at him. "

This second forgery of love being finished, he went about the house ontiptoe, found brown paper and twine, put the hood back into the box withhis half-sheet peeping from between the frills where the little facewould go, and made it up, with his undeft fingers, into an ungainlyparcel, which he addressed to himself as before. After that he did hisaccustomed duty with the lamp and the door, and lay down in the parlourto sleep. 

On Monday, at dinner, he broke out peevishly with "Ter'ble botheration, Nancy--I must be going to Port St. Mary about that thunderingdemonstration. "

Then from underneath the sofa in the parlour he rooted up a brown paperparcel, stuffed it under his coat, buttoned it up, and so smuggled itout of the house. 

VI. 

They set sail early in the afternoon, and ran down the coast under afair breeze that made the canvas play until the sea hissed. The day waswet and cheerless; a thick mist enshrouded the land, and going byLaxey they could just descry the top arc of the great wheel like adun-coloured ghost of a rainbow in a grey sky. As they came to Douglasthe mist was lifting, but the rain was coming down in a soaking drizzle. A band was playing dance tunes on the iron pier, which shot like aserpent's tongue out of the mouth of the bay. The steamer from Englandwas coming round the head, and her sea-sick passengers were dense as acrowd on her forward deck, the men with print handkerchiefs tied overtheir caps, the women with their skirts over their drooping feathers. Aharp and a violin were scraping lively airs amidships. The town was likea cock with his tail down crowing furiously in the wet. 

When they came to Port St. Mary the mist had risen and the rain wasgone, but the fishing-town looked black and sullen under a loweringcloud. The tide was down, and many boats lay on the beach and in theshallow water within the rocks. 

Pete was put ashore; his Nickey went round the Calf to the herringground beyond the shoulder; a number of fishermen were waiting for himon the quay, with heavy looks and hands deep in their trousers-pockets. 

"No need for much praiching at all, " said Pete, pointing to the boatslying aground. "There you are, boys, fifty of you at the least, with noroom to warp for the rocks. Yet they're for taxing you for dues for aharbour. "

"Go ahead, Capt'n, " said one of the fishermen; "there's five hundred menhere to back you up through thick and thin. "

Pete posted his brown paper parcel as stealthily as he had posted hisletter, and left Port St. Mary the same night for Douglas. The roadswere thick with coaches, choked full with pleasure-seekers from PortErin. These cheerful souls were still wearing the clothes which had beendrenched through in the morning; their boots were damp and cold; theywere chill with the night-air, but they did not repine. They sang andlaughed and ate oranges, drew up frequently at wayside houses, andhanded round bottles of beer with the corks drawn. In their own way theywere bright and cheerful company. Sometimes "Hold the Fort, " sung in abrake going ahead, mingled with "Molly and I and the Baby, " from lustythroats coming behind. Battling through Castletown, they shouted wildchaff at the redcoats lounging by the Castle, and when the darkness fellthey dropped asleep--the men usually on the women's shoulders; and thenthe horses' hoofs were heard splashing along the muddy road, and everyrider cracked his whip over a chorus of stertorous snores. 

Douglas was ablaze with light as they dipped down to it from the darkcountry. Long sinuous tails of light where the busy streets were, running in and out, this way and that, and belching into the widesquares and market-places like the race of a Curragh fire. The sleepersawoke and shook themselves. "Going to the Castle to-night?" said one. "What do you think?" said another, and they all laughed at the foolishquestion. 

"I'll sleep here, " thought Pete. "I've not searched Douglas yet. "

The driver found him a bed at his mother's house. It was a lodging-housein Church Street, overlooking the churchyard. Finding himself so nearto Athol Street, Pete thought he would look at the outside of Philip'schambers. He lit on the house easily, though the street was dark. Itwas one of a line of houses having brass plates, each with its name, andalways the word _Advocate_. Philip's house bore one plate only, a smallone, with the name hardly legible in the uneertain light. It ran--_TheDeemster Christian_. 

Having spelt out this inscription, Pete crept away. That was the lasthouse in the island at which he wished to call. He was almost afraidof being seen in the same town. Philip might think he was in Douglas tolook for Kate. 

Pete rambled through the narrow thoroughfares of Post-Office Place, Heywood Lane, and Fancy Street, until he came to the sea front. It wasnow full tide of busy night, and the holiday town seemed to be givenover to enjoyment. The steps of the terraces were thronged; itinerantphotographers pitched their cameras on the curb-stones; every openwindow had its dark heads with the light behind; pianos were clashing inthe houses, harps were twanging in the street, tinkling tram-cars, liketoast-racks, were sweeping the curve of the bay; there was a steady flowof people on the pavement, and from water's edge to cliff top, threeparts round like a horse's shoe, the town flashed and fizzed andsparkled and blazed under its thousand lights with the splendour of aforest fire. 

Pete called to mind the blinking and groping of the dear old half-littown to the north; he remembered the dark village at the foot of thelonely hills, with its trout-stream burrowing under the low bridge, andhe thought, "She may have tired of it all, poor thing!"

He looked at every woman's face as she went by him, hungering for oneglimpse of a face he feared to see. He did not see it, and he wanderedlike a lost soul through the little gay town until he drifted with thewave that flowed around the bay into the place that was known as theCastle. 

It was a dancing palace in a garden, built in the manner of aconservatory, with the ground level for those who came to dance, andthe galleries for such as came to see. Seated by the front rail of thegallery, Pete peered down into the faces below. Three thousand young menand young women were dancing, the men in flannels and coloured scarves, the women in light muslins and straw hats. Sometimes the white lights inthe glass roof were coloured with red and blue and yellow. The low buzzof the dancers' feet, the clang and clash of the brass instruments, theboom of the big drum, the quake of the glass house itself, and the lowrumble of the hollow floor beneath--it was like a battle-field set tomusic. 

"She may have tired, poor thing; God knows she may, " thought Pete. 

His eyes were growing hazy and his head dizzy, when he became consciousof a waft of perfume behind him, and a soft voice saying at his ear, "Were you looking for anybody, then?"

He turned with a start, and looked at the speaker. It was a young girlwith a pretty face, thick with powder. He could not be angry with thelittle thing; she was so young, and she was smiling. 

"Yes, " he said, "I _was_ looking for somebody;" and then he tried toshake her off. 

"Is it Maudie, you mane, dear? Are you the young man from Dublin?"

"Lave me, my girl; lave me, " said Pete, patting her hand, and twistingabout. 

The girl looked at him with a sort of pity, and then close at his neckshe said, "A fine boy like you shouldn't be going fretting his heartabout the best girl that's in. "

He looked at the pretty face again, and the little knowing airs began tobreak down. "You're a Manx girl, aren't you?"

The smile vanished like a flash. "How do you know that? My tonguedoesn't tell you, does it?" And the little thing was ashamed. 

Pete took the tight-gloved fingers in his big palm. "So you're my lilcountrywoman, then?" he said. "How old are you?"

The painted lips began to tremble. "Sixteen for harvest, " she answered. 

"My God!" exclaimed Pete. 

The darkened eyelids blinked; she was beginning to cry. "It wasn't myfault. He was a visitor with my mother at Ballaugh, and he left me toit. "

Pete took a sovereign out of his pocket, and shut it in the girl's hand. 

"Go home to-night, my dear, " he whispered, and then he clambered out ofthe place. 

"Not there!" cried Pete in his heart; "not there--I swear to God she isnot there. "

That ended his search. He resolved to go home the same night, and hewent back to his lodgings to pay his bill. Turning out of Athol Street, Pete was almost overrun by a splendid equipage, with two men in buffon the box-seat, and one man behind. "The Governor's carriage, " saidsomebody. At the next moment it drew up at Philip's door, its occupantalighted, and then it swung about and moved away. "It was the youngDeemster, " said a girl to her companion, as she went skipping past. 

Pete had seen the tall, dark figure, bent and feeble, as it walkedheavily up the steps. "Truth enough, " he thought, "there's nothing gotin this world without paying the price of it. "

It was three in the morning when Pete reached Ramsey, Elm Cottage wasdark and silent. He had to knock again and again before awakening Nancy. "Now, if this had been Kate!" he thought, and a new fear took hold ofhim. His poor darling, his wandering lamb, could she have knocked twice?Where was she to-night? He had been picturing her in happiness andplenty--was she in poverty and distress? All the world was sleeping--wasshe asleep? His hope was slipping away; his great faith was breakingdown. "Lord, do not forsake me! Master, strengthen me! My poor lostlove, where is she? What is she? Shall I see her face again?"

Something cold touched his hand. It was the dog. Without a bark he hadput his nose into Pete's palm. "What, Dempster, man, Dempster!" Thebat's ears were cocked--Pete felt them--the scut of a tail was wagged, and Pete got comfort from the battered old friend that had tramped theworld at his heels. 

Nancy unchained the door, opened it an inch, held a candle over herhead, and peered out. "My goodness, is it the man himself? However didyou come home?"

"By John the Flayer's pony, " said Pete; and he laughed and made light ofhis night-long walk. 

But next morning, when Nancy came downstairs with the child, Petewas busy with a screwdriver taking the chain off the door. "Ter'bleould-fashioned, these chains--must be moving with the times, you know. "

"Then what are you putting in its place?" said Nancy. 

"You'll see, you'll see, " said Pete. 

At seven that night Pete was smoking over the gate when Kelly the Thiefcame up with a brown paper parcel. "Parcel for you, Mr. Quilliam, " saidthe postman, with the air of a man who knew something he should notknow. 

Pete blinked and looked bewildered. "You don't say!" he said. 

"Well, if that's your name, " began the postman, holding the address forPete to read. 

Pete gave it a searching look. "Cap'n Peatr Quilliam, that's itsartenly, _Lm Cottig_--yes, it must be right, " he said, taking theparcel gingerly. Then with a prolonged "O----o!" shutting his eyes andnodding his head, "I know--a bit of a present from the mother to the lilone. Wonderful thoughtful a woman is about a baby when she's a mother, Mr. Kelly. "

The postman giggled, threw his finger seaward over one shoulder, andsaid, "Why aren't you writing back to her, then?"

"What's that?" said Pete sharply, making the parcel creak. 

"Why aren't you writing to tell her how the lil one is, I'm saying?"

Pete looked at the postman as if the idea had dropped from heaven. "Imust have a head as thick as a mooring-post, Mr. Kelly. Do you know, Inever once thought of it. I'm like Goliath when he got little David'sstone at his forehead--such a thing never entered my head before. "

"Do it for all, Mr. Quilliam, " said the postman, moving off. 

"I will, I will, " said Pete; and then he turned into the house. 

"Scissors, Nancy, " he shouted, throwing the parcel on the table. 

"My sakes, a parcel!" cried Nancy. 

"Aisy to tell where it comes from, too. See that knot, woman?" saidPete, with a knowing wink. 

"What in the world is it, Pete?" said Nancy. 

"I wonder!" said Pete. "Papers enough round it, anyway. A letter? We'lllook at that after, " he said loftily, and then out came the scarlethood. "Gough bless mee what's this thing at all?" and he held it up bythe crown. 

Nancy made a cry of alarm, took the hood out of his hand, and scoldedhim roundly. "These men, they're fit to spoil an angel's wings. "

Then she whipped up the baby out of the cradle, tried the hood on thelittle round head, and shouted with delight. 

"Now I was thinking of that, d'ye know?" she said. "I was, yes, I was;believe me or not, I was. 'Kirry will be sending something for the lilone the next time she writes, ' I was thinking, and behould ye--here itis. "

"Something spakes to us, Nancy, " said Pete. "'Deed it does, though. "

The child gurgled and purred, and for all her fine headgear she wasabsorbed in her bare toes. 

"And there's yourself, Pete--going to Peel and to Douglas, and I don'tknow where--and you've never once thought of the lil one--and knowing wewere for shortening her, too. "

Pete cast down his head and looked ashamed. 

"Well, no--of coorse--I never have--that's truth enough, " he faltered. 

VII. 

Pete went out to buy a sheet of notepaper and an envelope, a pen, and apostage stamp. He had abundance of all theso at home, but that did notserve his turn. Going to as many shops as might be, he dropped hintseverywhere of the purpose to which his purchases were to be put. Finally, he went to the barber's in the market-place and said, "Will youwrite an address for me, Jonaique?"

"Coorse I will, " said the barber, sweeping a hand of velvet over onecheek of the postman, who was in the chair, leaving the other cheek inlather while he took up the pen. 

"Mistress Peter Quilliam, care of Master Joseph Quilliam, Esquire, Scotland Road, Liverpool" dictated Pete. 

"What number, Capt'n?" said Jonaique. 

"Number?" said Pete, perplexed. "Bless me, what's this the number isnow? Oh, " by a sudden inspiration, "five hundred and fifteen. "

"Five hundred--d'ye say _five_" said the postman from the half of hismouth that was clear. 

"Five, " said Pete emphatically. "Aw, they're well up. "

"If _you_ say so, Capt'n, " said the barber, and down went "515. "

Pete returned home with the stamped and addressed envelope open in hishands, "Clane the table quick, " he shouted; "I must be writing to Kirry. Will I give her your love, Nancy?"

With much hem-ing and ha-ing and clearing of his throat, Pete wassettling himself before a sheet of note-paper, when the door opened, andPhilip stepped into the house. His face was haggard and emaciated; hiseyes burned as with a fire that came up from within. 

"I've come to warn you, " he said; "you are in great danger. You muststop that demonstration. "

"Sit down, sir, sit down, " said Pete. 

Philip did not seem to hear. He walked to and fro with short, nervous, noiseless steps. "The Governor sent for me last night, and I foundhim in a frenzy. 'Deemster, ' he said, 'they tell me there's to be adisturbance at Tynwald--have you heard of anything?' I said, 'Yes, I hadheard of a meeting of fishermen at Peel. ' 'They talk of theirrights, ' said he; 'I'll teach them something of one right they seemto forget--the right of the Governor to shoot down the disturbers ofTynwald, without judge or jury. ' 'That's a very old prerogative, yourExcellency, ' I said; 'it comes down from more lawless days than ours. You will never use it. ' 'Will I not?' said he. 'Listen, I'll tell youwhat I've done already. I've ordered the regiment at Castletown to beon Tynwald Hill on Tynwald day. Every man of these--there are threehundred--shall have twenty rounds of ball-cartridge. Then, if thevagabonds try to interrupt the Court, I've only to lift my hand--so--andthey'll be mown down like grass. ' 'You can't mean it, ' I said, and Itried to take his big talk lightly. 'Judge for yourself--see, ' andhe showed me a paper. It was an order for the ambulance waggons to bestationed on the ground, and a request to the doctors of Douglas to bepresent. "

"Then we've made the ould boy see that we mane it, " said Pete. 

"'If you know any one of the ringleaders, Deemster, ' he said, with alook into my face--somebody had been with him--there are tell-taleseverywhere----"

"It's the way of the world still, " said Pete. 

"'Tell him, ' said he, 'that I don't want to take the life of any man--Idon't want to send any one to penal servitude. '" It was uselessto protest. The man was mad, but he was in earnest. His plan wasfolly--frantic folly--but it was based on a sort of legal right. "So, forthe Lord's sake, Pete, stop this thing. Stop it at once, and finally. It's life or death. If ever you thought my word worth anything, you'lldo as I bid you, now. God knows where I should be myself if the Governorwere to do what he threatens. Stop it, stop it; I haven't slept forthinking of it. "

Pete had been sitting at the table, chewing the tip of the pen, and nowhe lifted to the paleness and wildness of Philip's face a cool, boldsmile. 

"It's good of you, Phil. . . . We've a right to be there, though, haven'twe?"

"You've a right, certainly, but----"

"Then, by gough, we'll go, " said Pete, dropping the pen, and bringinghis fist down on the table. 

"The penalty will be yours, Pete--yours. You are the man who willsuffer--you first--you alone. "

Pete smiled again. "No use--I'm incorr'iblê. I'm like Dan-ny-Clae, the sheep-stealer, when he came to die. 'I'm going to eternaljudgment--what'll I do?' says Dan. 'Give back all you've stolen, ' saysthe parzon. 'I'll chance it first, ' says the ould rascal. It's the otherfellow that's for stealing this time; but I'll chance it, Philip. Deathit may be, and judgment too, but I'll chance it, boy. "

Philip's eyes wandered over the floor. "Then you'll not change your planfor anything I've told you?"

"I will, though, " said Pete, "for one thing, anyway. _You_ shan't begetting into trouble--I'll be spokesman for the fishermen myself. Oh, I'll spake enough if they get my dander up. I'll just square my armsacrost my chest and I'll say, 'Your Excellency, ' I'll say, 'you can'tdo it, and you shan't do it--_because it isn't_ right. ' But chut!botheration to all such bobbery! Look here--man alive, look here! She'snot forgetting the lil one, you see, " and, making a proud sweep of thehand, Pete pointed to the scarlet hood. It had been put to sit acrossthe back of a china dog on the mantelpiece, with Pete's half sheet ofpaper pinned to the strings. 

Philip recognised it. The hood was the present he had made as godfather. His eyes blinked, his mouth twitched, the cords of his forehead moved. 

"So she--she sent that, " he stammered. 

"Listen here, " said Pete, and he unpinned the paper and read the messagealoud, with flourishes of voice and gesture--"For lil Katherine from herloving mother. . . Papa not to worry. . . Love to all inquiring friends. . . Best respects to the Dempster if Im not forgot at him. " Then in anoff-hand way he tossed the paper into the fire. "Aw, what's a bit of aletter, " he said largely, as it took flame and burned. 

Philip's bloodshot eyes seemed to be starting from his head. 

"Nancy's right--a man would never have thought of the like of that--now, would he?" said Pete, looking proudly from Philip to the hood, and fromthe hood back to Philip. 

Philip did not answer. Something seemed to be throttling him. 

"But when a woman goes away she leaves her eyes behind her, as you mightsay. 'What'll I be getting for them that's at home?' she's thinking, and up comes a nice warm lil thing for the baby. Aw, the women's good, Philip. They're what they make the sovereigns of, God bless them!"

Philip felt as if he must rush out of the house shrieking. One moment hestood up before Pete, as though he meant to say something, and then heturned to go. 

"Not sleeping to-night, no? Have to get back to Douglas? Then maybeyou'll write me a letter first?"

Philip nodded his head and returned, his mouth tightly closed, sat downat the table, and took up the pen. 

"What is it?" he asked. 

"Am I to give you the words, Phil? Yes? Well, if you won't be thinkingmane----"

Pete charged His pipe out of his waistcoat pocket, and began to dictate:

 "Dear wife. '"

At that Philip gave an involuntary cry. 

"Aw, best to begin proper, you know. 'Dear wife, '" said Pete again. 

Philip made a call on his resolution, and put the words down. His handfelt cold; his heart felt frozen to the core. Pete lit up, and walkedto and fro as he dictated his letter. Nancy sat knitting by the cradle, with one foot on the rocker. 

 "'Glad to get your welcome letter, darling, and the bonnet for the baby'-----"

"'Go on, " said Philip, in an impassive voice. 

"Got that down, Philip? Aw, you're smart wonderful with the pen, though. . . . 

 'When she's got it on her lil head you'd laugh tremenjous. She's straight like a lil John the Baptist in the church window'--"

Pete paused; Philip lifted his pen and waited. 

"Done already? Man veen, there's no houlding you. . . . 

 'Glad to hear you're so happy and comfortable with Uncle Joe and Auntie Joney. Give the pair of them my fond love and best respects. We're getting on beautiful, and I'm as happy as a sandboy. Sometimes Grannie gets a bit down with longing, and so does Nancy, but I tell them you'll be home for their funeral sarmon, anyway, and then they're comforted wonderful. '"

"Don't be writing his rubbage and lies, your Honour, " said Nancy. 

"Chut! woman; where's the harm at all? A merry touch to keep a person'sspirits up when she's away from home--eh, Philip?" and Pete appealed tohim with a nudge at his writing elbow. 

Philip gave no sign. With a look of stupor he was staring down at thepaper as he wrote. Pete puffed and went on--

 "'Cæsar's at it still, going through the Bible same as a trawl-boat, fishing up the little texes. The Dempster's putting a sight on us reg'lar, and you're not forgot at him neither. 'Deed no, but thinking of you constant, and trusting you're the better for laving home-----'

. . . Going too fast, am I? So I'm bating you at last, eh?"

A cold perspiration had broken out on Philip's forehead, and he waslooking up with the eyes of a hunted dog. 

"Am I to--must I write that?" he said in a helpless way. 

"Coorse--go ahead, " said Pete, puffing clouds of smoke, and laughing. 

Philip wrote it. His hand was now stiff. It sprawled and splashed overthe paper. 

 "'As for myself, I'm a sort of a grass-widow, and if you keep me without a wife much longer they'll be taxing me for a bachelor. '"

Pete put his pipe on the mantelpiece, cleared his throat repeatedly, andbegan to be afflicted with a cough. 

 "'Glad to hear you're coming home soon, darling (_cough_). Dearest Kirry, I'm missing you mortal (_cough_), worse nor at Kimberley (_cough_). When I'm going to bed, 'Where is she to-night?' I'm saying. And when I'm getting up, 'Where is she now?' I'm thinking. And in the dark midnight I'm asking myself, 'Is she asleep, I wonder?' (_Cough, cough_. ) Come home quick, bogh; but not before you're well at all. '

. . . Never do to fetch her too soon, you know, " he said in a whisper overPhilip's shoulder, with another nudge at his elbow. 

Philip answered incoherently, and shrank under Pete's touch as if he hadbeen burnt. The coughing continued; the dictating began again. 

 '"I'm keeping a warm nest for you here, love. There'll be a welcome from everybody, and nobody saying anything but the good and the kind. So come home soon, my true lil wife, before the foolish ould heart of your husband is losing him'----"

Pete coughed violently, and stretched his neck and mouth awry. "Thiscough I've got in my neck is fit to tear me in pieces, " he said. "Aspoonful of cold pinjane, Nancy--it's ter'ble good to soften the neck. "

Nancy was nodding over the cradle--she had fallen asleep. 

Philip had turned white and giddy and sick. For one moment an awfulimpulse seized him. He wanted to fall on Pete; to lay hold of him, tochoke him. The consciousness of his own inferiority, his own duplicity, made him hate Pete. The very sweetness of the man sickened him. He couldnot help it--the last spark of his self-pride was fighting for its life. Then in shame, in remorse, in horror of himself and dread of everything, he threw down the pen, caught up his hat, shouted "Good night" in avoice like the growl of a beast in terror, and ran out of the house. 

Nancy started up from a doze. "Goodness grazhers!" she cried, and thecradle rocked violently under her foot. 

"He's that tender-hearted and sympathising, " whispered Pete as he closedthe door. (_Cough, cough_). . . "The letter's finished, though--and here'sthe envelope. "

VIII. 

The following evening the Deemster was in his rooms in Athol Street. Hishat was on, his cloak was over his arm, he was resting his elbow on thesash of the window and looking vacantly into the churchyard. Jem wasbehind him, answering at his back. Their voices were low; they scarcelymoved. 

"All well upstairs?" said Philip. 

"Pretty well, your Honour. "

"More cheerful and content?"

"Much more, except when your Honour is from home. 'The Deemster's back, 'she'll say, and her poor face will be like sunshine on a rainy day. "

Philip remained silent for a moment, and then said in a scarcely audiblevoice--

"Not fretting so much about the child, Jemmy?"

"Just as anxious to hear of it, though. 'Has he been to Ramsey to-day?Did he see her? Is she well?' That's the word constant, sir. "

The Deemster was silent again, and Jem was withdrawing with a deep bow. "Jemmy, I'm going to Government House, and may be late. Don't wait upfor me. "

Jem answered in a half whisper, "Some one waits up for your Honourwhether I do or not 'He's at home now, ' she'll say, and then creep awayto bed. "

Philip muttered, thickly and huskily, "The decanter is empty--leave outanother bottle. " Then he turned to go from the room, keeping his eyesfrom his servant's face. 

He found the Governor as violent as before, and eager to fall on himbefore he had time to speak. 

"They tell me. Deemster, that the leader of this rising is a sort ofleft-hand relative of yours. Surely you can stop the man. "

"I've tried to, your Excellency, and failed, " said Philip. 

The Governor tossed up his chin. "I'm told the fellow can't even writehis own name, " he said. 

"It's true, " said Philip. 

"An illiterate and utterly uneducated person. "

"All the same, he's the wisest and strongest man on this island, " saidPhilip decisively. 

The Governor frowned, and the pockmarks on his forehead seemed to swell. "The wisest and strongest man on this island will have to leave it, " hesaid. 

Philip made no answer. He had come to plead, but he saw that it washopeless. The Governor put his right hand in the breast, of his whitewaistcoat--he was alone in the dining-room after dinner--and darted atPhilip a look of anger and command. 

"Deemster, " he said, "if, as you say, you cannot stop this low-bredrascal, there's one thing you can do--leave him to himself. "

"That is to say, " said Philip out of a corner of his mouth, "to you. "

"To me be it, and who has more right?" said the Governor hotly. 

Philip held himself in hand. He was silent, and his silence was takenfor submission. Cracking some nuts and munching them, the Governor beganto take another tone. 

"I should be sorry, Mr. Christian, if anything came between you andme--very sorry. We've been good friends thus far, and you will allowthat you owe me something. Don't you see it yourself--this man isdishonouring me in the eyes of the island? If you have tried your bestto keep his neck out of the halter, let the consequences be his own. "

"Eh?" said Philip, with his eyes on the floor. 

"You have done your duty by the man, I say. Help yourself to a glass ofwine. "

Still Philip did not speak. The Governor saw his advantage, but littledid he guess the pitiless power of it. 

"The fellow is your kinsman, Deemster, and I shall not ask you to dealwith him. That would be inhuman. If there is no hope of restraining himto-morrow--wise as he is, if he will not listen to saner counsels, Iwill only beg of you--but this is a matter for the police. You area high official now. It would be a pity to give you pain. Stay athome--I'll gladly excuse you--you look as if a day's rest would do yougood. "

Philip drank two glasses of the wine in quick succession. The Governorpoured him a third, and went on--

"I don't know what you're feeling for the man may be--it can't befriendship. I'm sure he's a thorn in your flesh. And as long as he'shere he will always be. "

Philip looked up with inquiry, doubt, and fear. 

"Ah! I knew it. Even if this matter goes by, your time will come. You'llquarrel with the fellow yet--you know you will--it's in the nature ofthings--if he's the man you say. "

Philip drank the third glass of wine and rose to go. 

"Leave him to me--I'll deal with him. You'll be done with him, and agood riddance, too, I reckon. And now come in to the ladies--they'llknow you're here. "

Philip excused himself and went off with feverish gestures and anexcited face. 

"The Governor is right, " he thought, as he went home over the darkroads. Pete was a thorn in his flesh, and always would be; his enemy, his relentless enemy, notwithstanding his love for him. 

The misery of the past month could not be supported any longer. Perpetual fear of discovery, perpetual guard of the tongue, keepingwatch and ward on every act of life--to-day, to-morrow, the next day, on and on until life's end in wretchedness or disgrace--it wasinsupportable, it was impossible, it could not be attempted. 

Then came thoughts that were too fearful to take form-too awful to takewords. They were like the flapping of unseen wings going by him inthe night, but the meaning of them was this: If Pete persists in hispurpose, there will be a riot. If any one is injured, Pete will betransported. If any one is killed, Pete will be indicted for his life. 

"Well, I have done my duty by him, " his heart whimpered. "I have triedto restrain him. I have tried to restrain the Governor. It isn't myfault. What more can I do?"

Philip walked fast. Here was the way of escape from the evil that besethis path. Fate was stretching out her hands to him. When men had donewrong, they did yet more wrong to elude the consequences of their firstfault; but there was no need for that in his case. 

The hour was late. A strong breeze was blowing off the sea. It flickedhis face with salt as he went swinging down the hill into the town. Hisblood was a-fire. He had a feeling, never felt before, of courage andeven ferocity. Something told him that he was not so good a man as hehad been, but it was a tingling pleasure to feel that he was a strongerman than before. 

Should he tell Kate? No! Let the thing go on; let it end. After it wasover she would see where their account lay. Thinking in this way, helaughed aloud. 

The town was quiet when he came to it. So absorbed had he been that, though the air was sharp, he had been carrying his cloak over hisarm. Now he put it on, and drew the hood close over his head. A dog, ahomeless cur, had begun to follow at his heels. He drove it off, but itcontinued to hang about him. At last it got in front of his feet, and hestumbled over it in one of his large, quick strides. Then he kicked thedog, and it crossed the dark street yelping. He was a worse man, and heknew it. 

He let himself into the house with his latch-key, and banged thedoor behind his back. But no sooner had he breathed the soft, woolly, stagnant air within than a change came over him. His ferocious strengthebbed away, and he began to tremble. 

The hall passage and staircase were in darkness. This was by hisorders--coming in late, he always forgot to put out the gas. But thelamp of his room was burning on the candle rest at the stairhead, and itcast a long sword of light down the staircase well. 

Chilled by some unknown fear, he had set one foot on the first treadwhen he thought he heard the step of some one coming down the stairs. Itwas a familiar step. He was sure he knew it. It must be a step he hearddaily. 

He stopped, and the step seemed to stop also. At that moment there wasa shuffling of slippered feet on an upper landing, and Jem-y-Lord calleddown, "Is it you, your Honour?"

With an effort he answered, "Yes. "

"Is anything the matter?" called the man-servant. 

"There's somebody coming downstairs, isn't there?" said Philip. 

"Somebody coming downstairs?" repeated the man-servant, and the lightshifted as if he were lifting the lamp. 

"Is it you coming down, Jem?"

"Me coming down? I'm here, holding the lamp, your Honour. "

"Another of my fancies, " thought Philip; and he laid hold of thehandrail, and started afresh. The step came on. He knew it now; it washis own step. "An echo, " he told himself. "A dream, " he thought, "amirage of the mind;" and he compelled himself to go up. The step camedown. It passed him on the stairs, going by the wall as he went by therail, with an irresistible down-drive, headlong, heavily. 

Then came one of those moments of partial unconsciousness in which thesensation of a sound takes shape. It seemed to Philip that the figure ofa man had passed him. He remembered it instantly. It was the same thathe had seen in the lobby to the Council Chamber, his own figure, butwrapped in a cloak like the one he was then wearing, and with the hooddrawn over the head. The body had been half turned aside, the face hadbeen hidden, and the whole form had expressed contempt, repugnance, andloathing. 

"Not well to-night, your Honour?" said the far-off voice of Jem-y-Lord. He was holding the dazzling lamp up to the Deemster's face. 

"A little faint--that's all. Go to bed. "

Then Philip was alone in his room. "Conscience!" he thought. "Pete maygo, but _this_ will be with me to the end. Which, O God?--which?"

He poured out half a tumbler from the bottle on the table, and gulped itdown at a draught. At the same moment he heard a light foot overhead. Itwas a woman's foot; it crossed the floor, and then ceased. 

IX. 

Next morning the Deemster was still sleeping while the sun was shininginto his room. He was awakened by a thunderous clamour, which cameas from a nail driven into the back of his head. Opening his eyes, he realised that somebody was knocking at his door, and shouting in arobustious bass--

"Christian, I say! Ever going to get up at all?"

It was the Clerk of the Rolls. Under one of his heavy poundings thecatch of the door gave way, and he stepped into the room. 

"Degenerate Manxman!" he roared. "In bed on Tynwald morning. Pooh! thisroom smells of dead sleep, dead spirits, and dead everything. Let me getat that window--you pitch your clothes all over the floor. Ah! that'sfresher! Headache? I should think so. Get up, then, and I'll drive youto St. John's. "

"Don't think I'll go to-day, sir, " said Philip in a feeble whimper. 

"Not go? Holy saints! Judge of his island and not go to Tynwald! Whatwill the Governor say?"

"He said last night he would excuse my absence. "

"Excuse your fiddlesticks! The air will do you good. I've got thecarriage below. Listen! it's striking ten by the church. I'll give youfifteen minutes, and step into your breakfast-room and look over the_Times_. "

The Clerk rolled out, and then Philip heard his loud voice through thedoor in conversation with Jem-y-Lord. 

"And how's Mrs. Cottier to-day?"

"Middling, sir, thank you, sir. ''

"You don't let us see too much of her, Jemmy. "

"Not been well since coming to Douglas, sir. "

Cups and saucers rattled, the newspaper creaked, the Clerk cleared histhroat, and there was silence. 

Philip rose with a heavy heart, still in the torment of his greattemptation. He remembered the vision of the night before, and, broadmorning as it was, he trembled. In the Isle of Man such visions areunderstood to foretell death, and the man who sees them is said to "seehis soul. " But Philip had no superstitions. He knew what the vision was:he knew what the vision meant. 

Jem-y-Lord came in with hot water, and Philip, without looking round, said in a low tone as the door closed, "How now, my lad?"

"Fretting again, your Honour, " said the man, in a half whisper. Hebusied himself in the room a moment, and then added, "Somehow she getsto know things. Yesterday evening now--I was taking down some of thebottles, and I met her on the stairs. Next time I saw her she wascrying. "

Philip said in a confused way, fumbling the razor. "Tell her I intend tosee her after Tynwald. "

"I have, your Honour. 'It's not that, Mr. Cottier, ' she answered me. "

"My wig and gown to-day, Jemmy, " said Philip, and he went out in hisrobes as Deemster. 

The day was bright, and the streets were thronged with vehicles. Brakes, wagonettes, omnibuses, private carriages, and cadger's carts all loadedto their utmost, were climbing out of Douglas by way of the road toPeel. The town seemed to shout; the old island rock itself seemed tolaugh. 

"Bless me, Christian, " said the Clerk of the Rolls, looking at hiswatch, "do you know it's half-past ten? Service begins at eleven. Driveon, coachman. You've eight miles to do in half an hour. "

"Can't go any faster with this traffic on the road, sir, " said thecoachman over his shoulder. 

"I got so absorbed in the newspaper, " said the Clerk, "that---- Well, ifwe're late, we're late, that's all. "

Philip folded his arms across his breast and hung his head. He wasfighting a great battle. 

"No idea that the fisherman affair was going to be so serious, " saidthe Clerk. "It seems the Governor has ordered out every soldier andpensioner. If I know my countrymen, they'll not stand much of that. "

Philip drew a long breath: there was a cloud of dust; the women in thebrakes were laughing. 

"I hear a whisper that the ringleader is a friend of yours, Christian--'an irregular relative of a high official, ' as the reportersays. "

"He is my cousin, sir, " said Philip. 

"What? The big, curly-pated fellow you took home in the carriage?. . . Isay, coachman, no need to drive _quite_ so fast. "

Philip's head was still down. The Clerk of the Rolls sat watching himwith an anxious face. 

"Christian, I am not so sure the Governor wasn't right after all. Isthis what's been troubling you for a month? You're the deuce for asecret. If there's anything good to tell, you're up like the sun; but ifthere's bad news going, an owl is a poll-parrot compared with you fortalking. "

Philip made some feeble effort to laugh, and to say his head was stillaching. They were on the breast of the steep hill going up to Greeba. The road ahead was like a funnel of dust; the road behind was like thetail of a comet. 

"Pity a fine lad like that should get into trouble, " said the Clerk. "I like the rascal. He got round an old man's heart like a rope rounda capstan. One of the big, hearty dogs that make you say, 'By Jove, and I'm a Manxman, too. ' He's in the right in this affair, whatever theGovernor may say. And the Governor knows it, Christian--that's whyhe's so anxious to excuse you. He can overawe the Keys; and as for theCouncil, we're paid our wages, God bless us, and are so many stuffedsnipes on his stick. But you--you're different. Then the man is yourkinsman, and blood is thicker than water, if it's only---- Why, what'sthis?"

There was some whooping behind; the line of carriages swirled like along serpent half a yard near the hedge, and through the grey dust alarge covered car shot by at the gallop of a fire-engine. The Clerk-satbolt upright. 

"Now, what in the name of----"

"It's an ambulance waggon, " said Philip between his set teeth. 

A moment later a second waggon went galloping past, then a third, andfinally a fourth. 

"Well, upon my---- Ah! good day. Doctor! Good day, good day!"

The Clerk had recognised friends on the waggons, and was returning theirsalutations. When they were gone, he first looked at Philip, and thenshouted, "Coachman, right about face. We're going home again--and chanceit. "

"We can't be turning here, sir, " said the coachman. "The vehiclesare coming up like bees going a-swarming. We'll have to go as far asTynwald, anyway. "

"Go on, " said Philip in a determined voice. 

After a while the Clerk said, "Christian, it isn't worth while gettinginto trouble over this affair. After all, the Governor is the Governor. Besides, he's been a good friend to you. "

Philip was passing through a purgatorial fire, and his old master wasfeeding it with fuel on every side. They were nearing Tynwald, and couldsee the flags, the tents, and the crowd as of a vast encampment, andhear the deep hum of a multitude, like the murmur of a distant sea. 

X. 

Tynwald Hill is the ancient Parliament ground of Man. It is an opengreen in the midst of the island, with hills on three of its sides, andon the fourth a broad plain dipping to the coast. This green is ofthe shape of a guitar. Down the middle of the guitar there is a walledenclosure of the shape of a banjo. At the end stands a church. The rounddrum is the mount, which has four circles, the topmost being some sixpaces across. 

The carriage containing the Deemster and the Clerk of the Bolls haddrawn up at the west gate of the church, and a policeman had opened thedoor. There came the sound of singing from the porch. 

"A quarter late, " said the Clerk of the Rolls, consulting his watch. "Shall we go in, your Honor?"

"Let us take a turn round the fair instead, " said Philip. 

The carriage door was shut back, and they began to move over the green. The open part of it was covered with booths, barrows, stands, andshow-tents. There were cheap jacks with shoddy watches, phrenologistswith two chairs, fat women, dwarfs, wandering minstrels, itineranthawkers of toffee in tin hat-boxes, and other shiny and slimy creatureswith the air and grease of the towns. There were a few oxen and horsesalso, tethered and lanketted, and kicking up the dust under the dryturf. 

The crowd was dense already, and increasing at every moment. As thebrakes arrived, they drove up with a swing that sent the people surgingon either side. Some brought well-behaved visitors, others brought aneruption of ruffians. 

Down the neck of the enclosure, and round the circular end of it, stooda regiment of soldiers with rifles and bayonets. The steps to the mountwere laid down with rushes. Two armchairs were on the top, under acanopy hung from a flagstaff that stood in the centre. These chairs werestill empty, and the mount and its approaches were kept clear. 

The sun was overhead, the heat was great, the odour was oppressive. Nowand again the sound of the service within the church mingled with thecrack of the toy rifle-ranges and the jabber of the cheap jacks. Atlength there was another sound--a more portentous sound--the sound ofbands playing in the distance. It came from both south and west, fromthe direction of Peel, and from that of Port St. Mary. 

"They're coming, " said the Clerk, and Philip's face, when he turned hishead to listen, quivered and grew yet more pale. 

As the bands approached they ceased to play. Presently a vast processionof men from the west came up in silence to the skirt of the hill, andturned off in the direction from which the men from the south were seento be coming. They were in jerseys and sea-boots, marching four deep, and carrying nothing in their brawny hands. One stalwart fellow walkedfirmly at the head of them. . It was Pete. 

Philip could support the strain no longer. He got out of the carriage. The Clerk of the Rolls got out also, and followed him as he walked withwavering, irregular steps. 

Under a great tree at the junction of three roads, the two companiesof fishermen met and fell into a general throng. There was a low wallaround the tree-trunk, and, standing on this, Pete's head was clearabove the rest. 

"Boys, " he was saying, "there's three hundred armed soldiers on the hillyonder, with twenty rounds of ball-cartridge apiece. You're going to theCoort because you've a right to go. You're going up peaceable, and, whenyou're getting there, you're going to mix among the soldiers, three toevery man, two on either side and one behind. Then your spokesmenare going to spake out your complaint. If they're listened to, you'rewanting no better. But if they're not, and if the word is given to fireon them, then, before there's time to do it, you're going to stretchevery man of the three hundred on his back and take his weapon. Don'thurt the soldiers--the poor soldiers are only doing what they're tould. But don't let the soldiers hurt you neither. You're going there forjustice. You're not going there to fight. But if anybody fights you, lethim never forget the day he done it. Break up every taffy stand in thefair, if you can't find anything better. And if blood is shed, lavethe man that orders it to me. And now go up, boys, like men and likeManxmen. "

There was no cheering, no shouting, no clapping of hands. Only brokenexclamations and a sort of confused murmur. "Come, " whispered the Clerkof the Rolls, putting his hand through Philip's quivering arm. "Littledoes the poor devil think that, if blood is shed, he will be the firstto fall. " "God in heaven!" muttered Philip. 

XI. 

The crowd on Tynwald had now gathered thick down the neck of theenclosure and dense round the mount. To the strains of the NationalAnthem, played by the band of the regiment, the Governor had come out ofthe church. He was in cocked hat and with sword, and the sword of statewas carried upright before him. With his Keys, Council, and clergy, hewalked to the hill-top. There he took one of the two chairs under thecanopy; the other, was taken by the Bishop in his lawn. Their followerscame behind, and broke up on the hill into an indiscriminate mass. Anumber of ladies were admitted to the space on the topmost round. Theystood behind the chairs, with their parasols still open. 

There are men that the densest crowd will part and make way for. The crowd had parted and made way for Philip. As the court was being"fenced, " he appeared with his companion at the foot of the mount. Therehe was recognised by many, but he scarcely answered their salutations. The Governor made a deferential bow, smiled, and beckoned to him to comeup to his side. He went up slowly, pausing at every other step, like aman who was in doubt if he ought to go higher. At length he stood at theGovernor's right hand, with all eyes upon him, for the favourite ofthe great is favoured. He was then the highest figure on the mount, theGovernor and the Bishop being seated. The people could see him fromend to side of the Tynwald, and he could see the people as they stoodclosely packed on the green below. 

The business of the Court began. It was that of promulgating the laws. Philip's senior colleague, the old Deemster of the happy face, read thetitles of the laws in English. 

Then the Coroner of the premier sheading began to recite the same titlesin Manx. Nobody heard them; hardly anybody listened. The ladies on themount chatted among themselves, the Keys and the clergy intermingled andtalked, the officials of the Council looked at the crowd, and the crowditself, having nothing to hear, no more to see, indifferent todoings they could not understand, resumed their amusements among thefrivolities of the fair. 

There were three persons in that assembly of fifteen thousand who werefollowing the course of events with feverish interest. The first ofthese was the Governor, whose restless eyes were rolling from sideto side with almost savage light; the second was the captain of theregiment, who was watching the Governor's face for a signal; the thirdwas Philip, who was looking down at the crowd and seeing something thathad meaning for himself alone. 

The fishermen came up quietly, three thousand strong. Half a hundred ofthem lounged around the magazine--the ammunition was at their command. The rest pushed, edged, and elbowed their way through the people untilthey came to the line of the guard. Wherever there was a red coat, behind it there were three jerseys and stocking-caps, Philip saw it allfrom his elevation on the mount. His face was deadly pale, his eyelidswavered, his lower lip trembled, his hand twitched; when he was spokento, he hardly answered; he was like a man holding counsel with himself, and half in fear that everybody could read his hidden thoughts. He wasin the last throes of his temptation. The decisive moment was near. Itwas heavy with the fate of his after life. He thought of Pete andthe torture of his company; of Kate and the unending misery of herexistence; of himself and the deep duplicity to which he was committed. From all this he could be freed for ever--by what? By doing nothing, having already done his duty? Only let him command himself, andthen--relief from an existence enthralled by torment--from constantalarm and watchfulness--peace--sleep--love--Kate!

Somebody was speaking to him over his shoulder. It was nothing--onlythe quip of a witty fellow, descendant of a Spanish freebooter. Ladiescaught his eye, smiled and bowed to him. A little man, whose swarthyface showed African blood, reached up and quoted something about thebounds of freedom wide and wider. 

The Coroner had finished, the proceedings were at an end--there was amovement--something had happened--the Governor had half risen from hischair. Twelve men in sea-boots and blue jerseys had passed the line ofthe guard, and were standing midway across the steps of the mount. Oneof them was beginning to speak. It was Pete. 

"Governor, " he said; but the captain of the regiment was abreast of himin a moment, and a score of the soldiers were about his companions atthe next breath. The fishermen stood their ground like a wall, and thesoldiers fell back. There was hardly any scuffle. 

"Governor, " said Pete again, touching his cap. 

The Governor was twisting in his seat. Looking first at Pete, and thenat the captain, he was in the act of lifting his hand when suddenly itwas held by another hand at his side, and a low voice whispered at hisear, "No, sir; for God's sake, no!"

It was Philip. The Governor looked at him with amazement. "What do youmean?"

"I mean, " said Philip, still whispering over him hotly and impetuously, "that there's only one way back to Government House, but if you liftyour hand it will be one too many; I mean that if blood is shed you'llnever live to leave this mount; I mean that your three hundred soldiersare only as three hundred rabbits in the claws of three thousand crows. "

At the next instant he had left the Governor, and was face to face withthe fishermen. 

"Fishermen, " he cried, lifting both hands before him, "let there be notrouble here to-day, no riot, for God's sake, no bloodshed. Listen tome. I am the grandson of a fisherman; I have been a fisherman myself; Ilove the fishermen. As long as I live I will stand by you. Your rightsshall be my rights, your sins my sins, and where you go I will go too. "

Then, swinging back to the Governor, he bowed low, and said in adeferential voice--

"Your Excellency, these men mean no harm; they wish to speak to you;they have a petition to make; they will be loyal and peaceable. "

But the Governor, having recovered from his first fear, was now in aflame of anger. 

"No, " he said, with the accent of authority; "this is no time and noplace for petitions. "

"Forgive me, your Excellency, " said Philip, with a deeper bow; "this isthe time of all times, the place of all places. "

There had been a general surging of the Keys and clergy towards thesteps, and now one of them cried out of their group, "Is Tynwald Courtto be turned into a bear-garden?" And another said in a cynical voice, "Perhaps your Excellency has taken somebody else's seat. "

Philip raised himself to his full height, and answered, with his eyes onthe speakers, "We are free-born men on this island, your Excellency. Wedid not come to Tynwald to learn order from the grandson of a Spanishpirate, or freedom from the son of a black chief. "

"Hould hard, boys!" cried Pete, lifting one hand against his followers, as if to keep them quiet. He was boiling with a desire to shout till histhroat should crack. 

The Governor had exchanged rapid looks and low whispers with thecaptain. He saw that he was outwitted, that he was helpless, that he waseven in personal danger. The captain was biting his leg with vexationthat he had not reckoned more seriously with this rising--that he hadnot drawn up his men in column. 

"Your Excellency will hear the fishermen?" said Philip. 

"No, no, no, " said the Governor. He was at least a brave man, if a vainand foolish one. 

There was silence for a moment. Then, standing erect, and making aneffort to control himself, Philip said, "May it please your Excellency, you fill a proud position here; you are the ruler of this island underyour sovereign lady our Queen. But we, your subjects, your servants, arein a prouder position still. We are Manxmen. This is the Court of ourcountry. "

"Hould hard, " cried Pete again. 

"For a thousand years men with our blood and our names have stood onthis hill to hear the voice of the people, and to do justice betweenman and man. That's what the place was meant for. If it has lost thatmeaning, root it up--it is a show and a sham. "

"Bravo!" cried Pete; he could hold himself in no longer, and his wordwas taken up with a shout, both on the hill and on the green beneath. 

Philip's voice had risen to a shrill cry, but it was low and meek as headded, bowing yet lower while he spoke--

"Your Excellency will hear the fishermen?"

The Governor rolled in his seat. "Go on, " he said impatiently. 

The men made their petition. Three or four of them spoke briefly andto the point. They had had harbours, their fathers' harbours, which hadbeen freed to them forty years before; don't ask them to pay harbourdues until proper harbours were provided:

The Governor gave his promise. Then he rose, the band struck up "Godsave the Queen, " and the Legislature filed back to the chapel. 

Philip went with them. He had fought a great battle, and he hadprevailed. Through purging fires the real man had emerged, but hehad paid the price of his victory. His eye burned like live coal, his cheek-bones seemed to have upheaved. He walked alone; his ancientcolleague had stepped ahead of him. But now and again, as he passed downthe long path to the church-door, fishermen and farmers pushed betweenthe rifles of the guards, and said in husky voices, "Let me shake you bythe hand, Dempster. "

The scene was repeated with added emotion half an hour afterwards, when, the court being adjourned and the Governor gone in ominous silence, Philip came out, white and smiling, and leaning on the arm of his oldmaster, the Clerk of the Rolls. He could scarcely tear himself throughthe thick-set hedge of people that lined the path to the gate. As hegot into the carriage his smile disappeared. Sinking into the seat, heburied himself in the corner and dropped his head on his breast. Thepeople began to cheer. 

"Drive on, " he cried. 

The cheering became loud. 

"Drive, drive, " he cried. 

The people cheered yet louder. They thought that they had seen a grandtriumph that day--a man triumphing over the Governor. But there hadbeen a grander triumph which they had not seen--a man triumphing overhimself. Only one saw that, and it was God. 

XII. 

Pete seemed to be beside himself. He laughed until he cried; he crieduntil he laughed. His resonant voice rang out everywhere. 

"Hear him? My gough, it was like a bugle spaking. There's nobody canspake but himself. When the others are toot-tooting, it's just 'Polly, put the kettle on' (mimicking a mincing treble). See the lil Puffin onhis throne of turf there? Looked as if Ould Nick had been thrashing peason his face for a week. "

Pete's enthusiasm rose to frenzy, and he began to sweep through thefair, bemoaning his country and pouring mouth-fuls of anathema on hiscountrymen. 

"_Mannin veg villish_ (sweet little Isle of Man), with your EnglishGovernors and your English Bishops, and boys of your own worth ten ofthem. _Manninee graihagh_ (beloved Manxmen), you're driving them away tobe Bishops for others and Governors abroad--and yourselves going to thedogs and the divil, and d------ you. "

Pete's prophetic mood dropped to a jovial one. He bought the remainingstock-in-trade of an itinerant toffee-seller, and hammered the lid ofthe tin hat-box to beat up the children. They followed him like hareshopping in the snow; and he distributed his bounty in inverse relationto size, a short stick to a big lad, a long stick to a little one, andtwo sticks to a girl. The results were an infantile war. Here, a damselof ten squaring her lists to fight a hulking fellow of twelve for hersister of six; and there, a mother wiping the eyes of her boy of five, and whispering "Hush, bogh; hush! You shall have the bladder when wekill the pig. "

Pete began to drink. "How do, Faddy? Taking joy of you, Juan. Are you inlife, Thom! Half a glass of rum will do no harm, boys. Not the drink atall--just the good company, you know. "

He hailed the women also, but they were less willing to be treated. "I'dhave more respect for my quarterly ticket, sir, " said Betsy--she was aPrimitive, with her husband on the "Planbeg. " "There's a hole in yourpocket, Capt'n; stop it up with your fist, man, " said Liza--she was agombeen woman, and when she got a penny in her hand it was a prisonerfor life. "Chut! woman, " said Pete, "what's the good book say ing?'Riches have wings;' let the birds fly then, " and off he went, reelingand tottering, and laughing his formidable laugh. 

Pete grew merry. Rooting up the remains of the fishermen's band, hehired them to accompany him through the fair. They were three littlemusicians, now exceedingly drunk, and their duty was to play "Hail, Isleof Man, " as he went swaggering along in front of them. 

 "Hail, Isle of Man, Swate ocean lan', I love thy sea-girt border. "

"Play up, Jackie. "

 "The barley sown, Potatoes down, We'll get our boats in order. "

Thus he forged through the fair, capering, laughing, shouting protestsover his shoulder when the tipsy music failed, pretending to be verydrunk, trying to show that he was carrying on, that he was going it, that he hadn't a second thought, but watching everything for all that, studying every face, and listening to the talk of everybody. 

"Whips of money at him, Liza--whips of it--millions, they'resaying. "--"He's spending it like flitters then. The Manx chaps isn't fitfor fortunes--no, they aren't. I wonder in the world what sort of wifethere's at him. _I_ don't 'low my husband the purse. Three ha'pence isenough to be giving any man at once. "--"Wife, you're saying? Don't youknow, woman?" Then some whispering. 

"Bass, boy--more bass, I tell thee. "

 "We then sought nex' The soothing sex, Our swatearts at Port Erin. "

"Who _is_ the man at all?"--"Why, Capt'n Quilliam fromKimberley. "--"'Deed, man! Him that married with some of the CæsarGlenmooar's ones?"--"She's left him, though, and gone off with awastrel. "--"You don't say?"--"Well, I saw the young woman myself----"

 "At Quiggin's Hall There's enough for all, Good beer, and all things proper. "

"Hould, boys!"

Pete had drawn up suddenly, and stopped his musicians with a sweep ofthe arm. 

"Were you spaking, Mr. Corteen?"

"Nothing, Capt'n. No need to stare at all. I was only saying I was atthe camp-meeting at Sulby, and I saw----"

"Go on, Jackie. "

 "A pleasant place, With beds of aise, When we are done our supper. "

The unhappy man was deceiving himself at least as much as anybody else. After looking for the light of intelligence in every face, waiting fora word, watching for a glance, expecting every moment that some onefrom south or north, or east or west, would say, "I've seen her;" yet, covering up the burning coal of his anxiety with the ashes of mockmerriment, he tried to persuade himself that Kate was not on theisland if nobody at Tynwald had seen her; that he had told the truthunwittingly, and that he was as happy as the day was long. 

XIII. 

A man in a gig came driving a long-horned cow in front of him. Driver, horse, gig, and cow were like animated shapes of dust, but Peterecognised them. 

"Is it yourself, Cæsar? So you're for selling ould Horney?"

"Grieved in my heart I am to do it, sir. Many a good glass of milk shehas given to me and mine, " and Cæsar was ready to weep. 

"Going falling in fits, isn't she, Cæsar?"

"Hush, man! hush, man!" said Cæsar, looking about. "A good cow, very;but down twice since I left home this morning. "

"I'd give a bad sixpence to see Cæsar selling that cow, " thought Pete. 

Three men were bargaining over a horse. Two were selling, the third (itwas Black Tom) was buying. 

"Rising five years, sir. Sired by Mahomet. Oh, I've got the papers toprove it, " said one of the two. 

"What, man? Five?" shouted Black Tom down the horse's open mouth. "She'll never see eight the longest day she lives. "

"No use decaiving the man, " said the other dealer, speaking in Manx. "She's sixteen--'low she's nine, anyway. "

"Fair play, boys; spake English before a poor fellow, " said Black Tom, with a snort. 

"This brother of mine lows she's seven, " said the first of the two. 

"You thundering liar, " said Black Tom in Manx. "He says she's sixteen. "

"Dealing ponies then?" asked Pete. 

"Anything, sir; anything. Buying for farmers up Lonan way, " said BlackTom. 

"Come on, " said Pete; "here's Cæsar with a long-horned cow. "

They found the good man tethering a white, long-horned cow to the wheelof the tipped-up gig. 

"How do, Cæsar? And how much for the long-horn?" said Black Tom. 

"Aw, look at the base (beast), Mr. Quilliam. Examine her for yourself, "said Cæsar. 

"Middling fair ewer, good quarter, five calves--is it five, Cæsar?" saidBlack Tom, holding one of the long horns. 

"Three, sir, and calving again for February. "

"No milk fever? No? Kicks a bit at milking? Never? Fits? Ever had fits, Cæsar?" opening wide one of the cow's eyes. 

"Have you known me these years for a dacent man, Mr. Quilliam----" beganCæsar in an injured tone. 

"Well, what's the figure?"

"Fourteen pound, sir! and she'll take the road before I'll go home witha pound less!"

"Fourteen--what! Ten; I'll give you ten--not a penny more. "

"Good day to _you_, Mr. Quilliam, " said Cæsar. Then, as if by anafterthought, "You're an ould friend of mine, Thomas; a very ouldfriend, Tom--I'll split you the diff'rance. "

"Break a straw on it, " said Black Tom; and the transaction was complete. 

"I've had a clane strike here--the base is worth fifteen, " chuckledBlack Tom in Pete's ear as he drove the cow in to a shed beyond. 

"I must be buying another cow in place of poor ould Horney, " whisperedCæsar as he dived into the cattle stand. 

"Strike up, Jackie, " shouted Pete. 

 "West of the mine, The day being fine. The tide against us veering. "

Ten minutes later Pete heard a fearful clamour, which drowned the noisethat he himself was making. Within the shed the confusion of tongues wasterrific. 

"What's this at all?" he asked, crushing through with an innocent face. 

"The man's cow has fits, " cried Black Tom. "I'll have my money back. The ould psalm-singing Tommy Noddy! did he think he was lifting thecollection? My money! My twelve goolden pounds!"

If Black Tom had not been as bald as a bladder, he would have torn hishair in his mortification. But Pete pacified him. 

"Cæsar is looking for another cow--sell him his own back again. Impozz'ble? Who says it's impozz'ble? Cut off her long horns, and he'llnever be knowing her from her grandmother. "

Then Pete made up to Cæsar and said, "Tom's got a mailie (hornless) cowto sell, and it's the very thing you're wanting. "

"Is she a good mailie?" asked Cæsar. 

"Ten quarts either end of the day, Cæsar, and fifteen pounds of butter aweek, " said Pete. 

"Where's the base, sir?" said Cæsar. 

They met Black Tom leading a hornless, white cow from the shed to thegreen. 

"Are you coming together, Peter?" he said cheerfully. 

Cæsar eyed the cow doubtfully for a moment, and then said briskly, "What's the price of the mailie, Mr. Quilliam?"

"Aw, look at the base first, Mr. Cregeen. Examine her for yourself, sir. "

"Yes--yes--well, yes; a middling good base enough. Four calves, Thomas?"

"Two, sir, and calves again for January. Twenty-four quarts of new milkevery day of life, and butter fit to burst the churn for you. "

"No fever at all? No fits? No?"

"Aw, have you known me these teens of years, Mr. Cregeen----"

"Well, what d'ye say--eleven pounds for the cow, Tom!"

"Thirteen, Cæsar; and if you warn an ould friend----"

"Hould your hand, Mr. Quilliam; I'm not a man when I've got abargain. . . . Manx notes or the dust, Thomas? Goold? Here you are, then--one--two--three--four. . . " (giving the cow another searching glanceacross his shoulder). "It's wonderful, though, the straight she'slike ould Horney. . . Five--six--seven. . . In colour and size, Imane. . . Eight--nine--ten. . . And if she warn a mailie cow, now. . . Eleven--twelve--" (the money hanging from his thumb). "Will that beenough, Mr. Quilliam? No? Half a one, then? Aw, you're hard, Tom. . . Thirteen. "

Having paid the last pound, Cæsar stood a moment contemplating hispurchase, and then said doubtfully, "Well, if I hadn't. . . Grannie willbe saying it's the same base back-----" (the cow began to reel). "Yes, and it--no, surely--a mailie for all-----" (the cow fell). "It's got thesame fits, anyway, " cried Cæsar; and then he rushed to the cow's head. "It _is_ the same base. The horns are going cutting off at her. My moneyback! Give me my money back--my thirteen yellow sovereigns--the sweat ofmy brow!" he cried. 

"Aw, no, " said Black Tom. "There's no money giving back at all. If thecow was good enough for you to sell, she's good enough for you to buy, "and he turned on his heel with a laugh of triumph. 

Cæsar was choking with vexation. 

"Never mind, sir, " said Pete. "If Tom has taken a mane advantage ofyou, it'll be all set right at the Judgment. You've that satisfaction, anyway. "

"Have I? No, I haven't, " said Cæsar from between his teeth. "The man'sclever. He'll get himself converted before he comes to die, and thenthere'll not be a word about cutting the horns off my cow. "

"Strike up, Jackie, " shouted Pete. 

 "Hail, Isle of Man, Swate ocean làn', I love thy sea-girt border. "

XIV. 

The sky became overcast, rain began to fall, and there was a rush forthe carts. In half an hour Tynwald Hill was empty, and the people weresplashing off on every side like the big drops of rain that were peltingdown. 

Pete hired a brake that was going back to the north, and gathered uphis friends from Ramsey. When these were seated, there was a rush ofhelpless and abandoned ones who were going in the same direction--youngmothers with children, old men and old women. Pete hauled them up tillthe seats and the floor were choked, and the brake could hold no more. He got small thanks. "Such crushing and scrooging! I declare my blackmerino frock, that I've only had on once, will be teetotal spoilt. "--"Ifthey don't start soon I'll be taking the neuralgy dreadful. "

They got started at length, and, at the tail of a line of stiff carts, they went rattling over the mountain-road. The harebells nodded theirwashed faces from the hedge, and the talk was brisk and cheerful. 

"Our Thorn's sowl a hafer, and got a good price. "--"What for didn't youbuy the mare of Corlett Beldroma, Juan?"--"Did I want to be killed asdead as a herring?"--"Kicks, does she? Bate her, man; bate her. A horseis like a woman. If you aren't bating her now and then----"

They stopped at every half-way houses--it was always halfway tosomewhere. The men got exceedingly drunk and began to sing. At that thewomen grew very angry. 

"Sakes alive! you're no better than a lot of Cottonies. "--"Deed, butthey're worse than any Cottonies, ma'am. Some excuse for the like of_them_. In their cotton-mills all the year, and nothing at home but apiece of grass the size of your hand in the backyard, and going hoppingon it like a lark in a cage. "

The rain came down in torrents, the mountain-path grew steep anddesolate, the few houses passed were empty and boarded up, gorse busheshissed to the rising breeze, geese scuttled and screamed across theuntilled land, a solitary black crow flew across the leaden sky, and onthe sea outside a tall pillar of smoke went stalking on and on, wherethe pleasure-steamer carried her freight of tourists round the island. Then songs gave way to sighs, some of the men began to pick quarrels, and some to break into fits of drunken sobbing. 

Pete kept them all up. He chaffed and laughed and told funny stories. Choking, stifling, wounded to the heart as he was, still he was carryingon, struggling to convince everybody and himself as well, that nothingwas amiss, that he was a jolly fellow, and had not a second thought. 

He was glad to get home, nevertheless, where he need play the hypocriteno longer. Going through Sulby, he dropped out of the brake and lookedin at the "Fairy. " The house was shut. Grannie was sitting up for Cæsar, and listening for the sound of wheels. There was something unusual andmysterious about her. Cruddled over the fire, she was smoking, a longclay in little puffs of blue smoke that could barely be seen. The sweetold soul in her troubles had taken to the pipe as a comforter. Petecould see that something had happened since morning, but she looked athim with damp eyes, and he was afraid to ask questions. He began to talkof the great doings of the day at Tynwald, then of Philip, and finallyof Kate, apologising a little wildly for the mother not coming homesooner to the child, but protesting that she had sent the little one noend of presents. 

"Presents, bless ye, " he began rapturously----

"You don't ate enough, Pete, 'deed you don't, " said Grannie. 

"Ate? Did you say ate?" cried Pete. "If you'd seen me at the fair you'dhave said, 'That man's got the inside of a limekiln!' Aw, no, Grannie, I'm not letting my jaws travel far. When I've got anything before meit's--down--same as an ostrich. "

Going away in the darkness, he heard Cæsar creaking up in the gig withold Horney, now old Mailie, diving along in front of him. 

Nancy was waiting for Pete at Elm Cottage. She tried to bustle himupstairs. 

"Come, man, come, " she said; "get yourself off to bed and I'll bringyour clothes down to the fire. "

He had never slept in the bedroom since Kate had left. "Chut! I've lostthe habit of beds, " he answered. "Always used of the gable loft, youknow, and the wind above the thatch. "

Not to be thought to behave otherwise than usual, he went upstairs thatnight. But--

 "Feather beds are saft, Pentit rooms are bonnie, But ae kiss o' my dear love Better's far than ony. "

The rain was still falling, the sea was loud, the mighty breath of nightwas shaking the walls of the house and rioting through the town. He waswet and tired, longing for a dry skin and a warm bed and rest. 

 "Yet fain wad I rise and rin If I tho't I would meet my dearie. "

The long-strained rapture of faith and confidence was breaking down. Hesaw it breaking. He could deceive himself no more. She was gone, she waslost, she would lie on his breast no more. 

"God help me! O, Lord, help me, " he cried in his crushed and breakingheart. 

XV. 

When Kate thought of her husband after she had left him, it was not withany crushing sense of shame. She had injured him, but she had gainednothing by it. On the contrary, she had suffered, she had undergoneseparation from her child. To soften the hard blow inflicted, she hadoutraged the tenderest feelings of her heart. As often as she thought ofPete and the deep wrong she had done him, she remembered this sacrifice, she wept over this separation. Thus she reconciled herself to herconduct towards her husband. If she had bought happiness at the cost ofPete's sufferings, her remorse might have been deep; but she had onlyaccepted shame and humiliation and the severance of the dearest of herties. 

When she had said in the rapture of passionate confidence that if shepossessed Philip's love there could be no humiliation and no shame, shehad not yet dreamt of the creeping degradation of a life in the dark, under a false name, in a false connection: a life under the same roofwith Philip, yet not by his side, unacknowledged, unrecognised, hiddenand suppressed. Even at the moment of that avowal, somewhere in thesecret part of her heart, where lay her love of refinement and herdesire to be a lady, she had cherished the hope that Philip would finda way out of the meanness of their relation, that she would come to liveopenly beside him, she hardly knew how, and she did not care at whatcost of scandal, for with Philip as her own she would be proud andhappy. 

Philip had not found that way out, yet she did not blame him. She hadbegun to see that the deepest shame of their relation was not hers buthis. Since she had lived in Philip's house the man in him had begun todecay. She could not shut her eyes to this rapid demoralisation, and sheknew well that it was the consequence of her presence. The deceptions, the subterfuges, the mean shifts forced upon him day by day, by everychance, every accident, were plunging him in ever-deepening degradation. And as she realised this a new fear possessed her, more bitter than anyhumiliation, more crushing than any shame--the fear that he would ceaseto love her, the terror that he would come to hate her, as he recognisedthe depth to which she had dragged him down. 

XVI. 

Back from Tynwald, Philip was standing in his room. From time to timehe walked to the window, which was half open, for the air was close andheavy. A misty rain was falling from an empty sky, and the daylightwas beginning to fail. The tombstones below were wet, the treed weredripping, the churchyard was desolate. In a corner under the wall laythe angular wooden lid which is laid by a gravedigger over an opengrave. Presently the iron gates swung apart, and a funeral companyentered. It consisted of three persons and an uncovered deal coffin. Oneof the three was the sexton of the church, another was the curate, thethird was a policeman. The sexton and the policeman carried the coffinto the church-door, which the curate opened. He then went into thechurch, and was followed by the other two. A moment later there werethree strokes of the church bell. Some minutes after that the funeralcompany reappeared. It made for the open grave in the corner by thewall. The cover was removed, the coffin was lowered, the policeman halflifted his helmet, and the sexton put a careless hand to his cap. Thenthe curate opened a book and closed it again. The burial service wasat an end. Half an hour longer the sexton worked alone in the drenchingrain, shovelling the earth back into the grave. 

"Some waif, " thought Philip; "some friendless, homeless, nameless waif. "

He went noiselessly up the stairs to the floor above, slinking throughthe house like a shadow. At a door above his own he knocked with a heavyhand, and a woman's voice answered him from within--

"Is any one there?"

"It is!, " he said. "I am coming to see you. "

Then he opened the door and slipped into the room. It was a room likehis own at all points, only lower in the ceiling, and containing a bed. A woman was standing with her back to the window, as if she had justturned about from looking into the churchyard. It was Kate. She had beenexpecting Philip, and waiting for him, but she seemed to be overwhelmedwith confusion. As he crossed the floor to go to her, he staggered, andthen she raised her eyes to his face. 

"You are ill, " she said. "Sit down. Shall I ring for the brandy?"

"No, " he answered. "We have had a hard day at Tyn-wald--sometrouble--some excitement--I'm tired, that's all. "

He sat on the end of the bed, and gazed out on the veil of rain, slanting across the square church tower and the sky. 

"I was at Ramsey two days ago, " he said; "that's what I came to tellyou. "

"Ah!" She linked her hands before her, and gazed out also. Then, in atrembling voice, she asked, "Is mother well?"

"Yes; I did not see her, but--yes, she bears up bravely. "

"And--and--" the words stuck in her throat, "and Pete?"

"Well, also--in health, at all events. "

"You mean that he is broken-hearted?"

With a deep breath he answered, "To listen to him you would think he wascheerful enough. "

"And little Katherine?"

"She is well too. I did not see her awake. It was late, and she was inher cradle. So rosy, and fresh, and beautiful!"

"My sweet darling! She was clean too? They take care of her, don'tthey?"

"More care they could not take. "

"My darling baby! Has she grown?"

"Yes; they talk of taking her out of the long clothes soon. Nancy islike a second mother to her. "

Kate's foot was beating the floor. "Oh, why can't her own mother----"she began, and then in a faltering voice, "but that cannot be, Isuppose. . . . Do her eyes change? Are they still blue? But she was asleep, you say. My dear baby! Was it very late? Nine o'clock? Just nine? I wasthinking of her at that moment. It is true I am always thinking of her, but I remember, because the clock was striking. 'She will be in herlittle cot now, ' I thought, 'bathed and clean, and so pretty in hernightdress, the one with the frill!' My sweet, sweet angel!"

Her speech was confused and broken. "Do you think if I never see heruntil. . . Will I know her if. . . It's useless to think of that, though. Is her hair like. . . What is the colour of her hair, Philip?"

"Fair, quite fair; as fair as mine was----"

She swirled round, came face to face with him, and cried, "Philip, Philip, why can't I have my darling to myself? She would be well enoughhere. I could keep her quiet. Oh, she would not disturb you. And Ishould be so happy with my little Kate for company. The time is longwith me sometimes, Philip, and I could play with her all the day. Andthen at night, when she would be in the cot, I could make her littlestock of clothes--her frocks and her little pinafores, and----"

"Impossible, Kate, impossible!" said Philip. 

She turned to the window. "Yes, " she said, in a choking voice, "Isuppose it would even be stealing to fetch her away now. Only think! Amother stealing her own child! O gracious heaven, have I sinned myselfso far from my innocent baby! My child, my child! My little Katherine!"

Her bosom heaved, and she said in a hard tone, "I daresay they think I'ma bad mother because I left her to others to nurse her and to love her, to see her every day and all day, to bathe her sweet body, and to combher yellow hair, to look into her little blue eyes, and to watch all herpretty, pretty ways--Oh, yes, yes. " she said, with increasing emotion, "I daresay they think that of me. "

"They think nothing but what is good of you, Kate--nothing but what isgood and kind. "

She looked out on the rain which fell unceasingly, and said in a lowvoice, "Is Pete still telling the same story--that I am only away for alittle while--that I am coming back?"

"He is writing letters to himself now, and saying they come from you. "

"From me?"

"Such simple things--all in his own way--full of love and happiness--_Iam so happy and comfortable_--it is pitiful. He is like a child--henever suspects anything. You are better and enjoying yourself andlooking forward to coming home soon. Sending kisses and presents for thebaby, too, and greetings for everybody. There are messages for me also. _Your true and loving wife_--it is terrible. "

She covered her face with both hands. "And is he telling everybody?"

"Yes; that's what the letters are meant for. He thinks he is keepingyour name sweet and your place clean, so that you may return at anytime, and scandal may not touch you. "

"Oh, why do you tell me that, Philip? It is dragging me back. And thechild is dragging me back also. . . Does he show the letters to you?"

"Worse than that, Kate--much worse--he makes me answer them. I answeredone the other night. Oh, when I think of it! _Dear wife, glad to getyour welcome letters_. God knows how I held the pen--I was giddy enoughto drop it. He gave you all the news--about your father, and Grannie, and everybody. All in his own bright way--poor old Pete, thecheeriest, sunniest soul alive. _The Dempster is putting a sight onus regular--trusts you are the better for leaving home_. It wasawful--awful! _Dearest Kirry, I'm missing you mortal--worse thanKimberley. So come home soon, my true lil wife, to your foolish ouldhusband, for his heart is losing him. _"

He leapt up, and began to tramp the floor. "But why do I tell you this?I should bear my own burdens. "

Her hands had come down from her face, which was full of a greatcompassion. "And did _you_ have to write all that?" she asked. 

"Oh, he meant no harm. He had no thought of hurting anybody! He neverdreamt that every word was burning and blistering me to the heart ofhearts. "

His voice deepened, and his face grew hard and ugly. "But it was thesame as if some devil out of hell had entered into the man and told himhow to torture me--as if the cruellest tyrant on earth had made me takeup the pen and write down my own death-warrant. I could have killedhim--I could not help it--yes, I felt at that moment as if---- Oh, whatam I saying?"

He stopped, sat on the end of the bed again, and held his head betweenhis hands. 

She came and sat by his side. "Philip, " she said, "I am ruining you. Yes, I am corrupting you. I who would have had you so high and pure--andyou so pure-minded--I am bringing you to ruin. Having me here isdestroying you, Philip. No one visits you now. You are shutting thedoor on everybody. . . . I heard you come in last night, Philip. I hear youevery night. Yes, I know everything. Oh, you will end by hating me--Iknow you will. Why don't you send me away? It will be better to send meaway in time, Philip. Besides, it will make no difference. We are in thesame house, yet we never meet. Send me away now, before it is too late. "

He dropped his hand and felt for her hand; he was trying not to lookinto her face. "We have both suffered, Kate. We can never hate oneanother--we have suffered for each other's sake. "

She clung tightly to the hand he gave her, and said, "Then you willnever forsake me, whatever happens?"

"Never, Kate, never, " he answered; and with a smothered cry she threwher arms about his neck. 

The rain continued to pour down on the roofs and on the tombs with amonotonous plash. "But what is to be done?" she said. 

"God knows, " he answered. 

"What is to become of us, Philip? Are we never to smile on each otheragain? We cannot carry a burden like this for ever. To-day, to-morrow, the next day, the next year--is it to go on like this for a lifetime? Isthis life? Is there nothing that will end it?"

"Yes, Kate, yes; there is one thing that will end it--one thing only. "

"Do you mean--_death?_"

He did not answer. She rose slowly from his side and returned to thewindow, rested her forehead against the pane, and looked down on thedesolate churchyard and the sexton at his work in the rain. Suddenly shebroke the silence. "Philip, " she said, "I know now what we ought to do. I wonder we have never thought of it before. "

"What is it?" he asked. 

She was standing in front of him. Her breath came quickly. "Tell Petethat I am dead. "

"No, no, no. "

She took both his hands. "Yes, yes, " she said. 

He kept his face away from her. "Kate, what are you saying?"

"What is more natural, Philip? Only think--if you had been anybody else, it would have come to that already. You must have hated me for draggingyou down into this mire of deceit, you must have forsaken me, and I musthave gone to wreck and ruin. Oh, I see it all--just as if it had reallyhappened. A solitary room somewhere--alone--sinking--dying--unknown, unnamed--forgotten----"

His eyes were wandering about the room. "It will kill him. If his heartcan break, it will break it, " he said. 

"He has lived after a heavier blow than that, Philip. Do you think he isnot suffering? For all his bright ways and hopeful talk and the lettersand the presents, do you think he is not suffering?"

He liberated his hands, and began to tramp the room as before, but withhead down dud hands linked behind him. 

"It will be cruel to deceive him, " he said. 

"No, Philip, but kind. Death is not cruel. The wound it makes will heal. It won't bleed for ever. Once he thinks I am dead he will weep a littleperhaps, and then "--she was stifling a sob--"then it will be all over. 'Poor girl, ' he will say, 'she was much to blame. I loved her once, and never did her any wrong. But she is gone, and she was the mother oflittle Katherine--let us forget her faults'----"

He had not heard her; he was standing before the window looking down. "You are right, Kate, I think you must be right. "

"I'm sure I am. "

"He will suffer, but he will get over it. "

"Yes, indeed. And you, Philip--he will torture you no longer. No moreletters, no more presents, no more messages----"

"I'll do it--I'll do it to-morrow, " he said. 

She opened her arms wide, and cried, "Kiss me, Philip, kiss me. We shalllive again. Yes, we shall laugh together still--kiss me, kiss me. "

"Not yet--when I come back. "

"Very well--when you come back. "

She sank into a chair, crying with joy, and he went out as he hadentered, noiselessly, stealthily, like a shadow. 

When a man who is not a criminal is given over to a deep duplicity oflife, he will clutch at any lie, wearing the mask of truth, which seemsto shield him from shame and pain. He may be a wise man in every otherrelation, a shrewd man, a far-seeing and even a cunning man, but in thisrelation--that of his own honour, his own fame, his own safety--he iscertain to be a blunderer, a bungler, and a fool. Such is the revenge ofNature, such is God's own vengeance!

XVII. 

Philip was walking from Ballure House to Elm Cottage. It was late, and the night was dark and silent--a muggy, dank, and stagnant night, without wind or air, moon or stars. The road was quiet, the trees werestill, the sea made only a far-off murmur. 

And as he walked he struggled to persuade himself that in what he wasabout to do he would be doing well. "It will not be wrong to deceivehim, " he thought. "It will only be for his own good. The suspense wouldkill him. He would waste away. The sap of the man's soul would dry up. Then why should I hesitate? Besides, it is partly true--true in its ownsense, and that is the real sense. She _is_ dead--dead to him. She cannever return to him; she is lost to him for ever. So it is true afterall--it is true. "

"It is a lie, " said a voice at his ear. 

He started. He could have been sure that somebody had spoken. Yet therewas nobody by his side. He was alone in the road. "It must have been myown voice, " he thought. "I must have been thinking aloud. " And then heresumed his walk and his meditation. 

"And if it is a lie, is it therefore a crime?" he asked himself. "Sureit is--how very sure!--it was a wise man that said so--a great faultonce committed is the first link in a chain. The other links seem to becrimes also, but they are not--they are consequences. _Our_ fault waslong ago, and even then it was partly the fault of Fate. If the pastcould be recalled we could not act differently unless our fates weredifferent. And what has followed has been only the consequence. It wasthe consequence when Kate was married to Pete; it was the consequencewhen she left him--and _this_ is the consequence. "

"It is a lie, " said the same voice by his side. 

He stopped. The darkness was gross around him--he could see nothing. 

"Who's there?" he demanded. 

There was no answer. He stretched his hand out nervously. There was noone at his side. "It must have been the wind in the trees, " he thought;but there could be no wind in the stagnant dampness of that air. "Itwas like my own voice, " he thought. Then he remembered how his manin Douglas had told him that he had contracted a habit of talking tohimself of late. "It was my own voice, " he thought, and he went onagain. 

"A lie is a bad foundation to build on--that's certain. The thing thatshould be cannot rest on the thing that is not. It will topple down; itwill come to ruin; it will wreck everything. Still----"

"It is a lie, " said the voice again. There could be no mistaking it thistime. It was a low, deep whisper. It seemed to be spoken in the verycavity of his ear. It was not his own voice, and yet it struck upon hissense with the sound as of his own. It must be his own voice speaking tohimself!

When this idea took hold of him, he was seized with a deadly shuddering. His heart knocked against his ribs, and an icy coldness came over him. "Only the same tormenting dream, " he thought. "Before it was a vision;now it is a voice. It is generated by solitude and separation. I mustresist it I must be strong. It will drive me into an oppression asof madness. Men do not 'see their souls' until they are bordering onmadness from religious mania or crime. "

"A lie! a lie!" said the voice. 

"This is madness itself. To paint faces on the darkness, to hear voicesin the air, is madness. The madman can do no more. "

"A lie!" said the voice again. He cast a look over his shoulder. It wasthe same as if some one had touched him and spoken. 

He walked faster. The voice seemed to walk with him. "I will hold myselffirm, " he thought; "I will not be afraid. Reason does not fail a manuntil he allows himself to _believe_ that it is failing. 'I am goingmad, ' he thinks; and then he shrieks and is mad indeed. I will notdepart from my course. If I do so now, I shall be lost. The horror willmaster me, and I shall be its slave for ever. "

He had turned out of Ballure into the Ramsey Road, and he could seethe town lights in the distance. But the voice continued to haunt himpersistently, besiegingly, despotically. 

"Great God!" he thought, "what is the imaginary devil to the horror ofthis presence? Your own eye, your own voice, always with you, alwaysfollowing you! No darkness so dense that it can hide the sight, no noiseso loud that it can deaden the sound!"

He walked faster. Still the voice seemed to stride by his side, aninvisible thing, with deliberate and noiseless step, from which therewas no escape. 

He drew up suddenly and walked slower. His knees were tottering, he wastreading as on waves; yet he went on. "I will not yield. I will mastermyself. I will do what I intended. I am not mad, " he thought. 

He was at the gate of Elm Cottage by this time, and, with a strong glowof resolution, he walked boldly to the door and knocked. 

XVIII. 

Pete had not awakened until late that morning. While still in bed hehad heard Grannie and Nancy in the room below. The first sound of theirvoices told him that something was amiss. 

"Aw, God bless me, God bless me!" said Nancy, as though with upliftedhands. 

"It was Kelly the postman, " said Grannie in a doleful tone--the tone inwhich she had spoken between the puffs of her pipe. 

"The dirt!" said Nancy. 

"He was up at Cæsar's before breakfast this morning, " said Grannie. 

"There now!" cried Nancy. "There's men like that, though. Just aiger formischief. It's sweeter than all their prayers to them. . . . But where canshe be, then? Has she made away with herself, poor thing?"

"That's what I was asking Cæsar, " said Grannie. "If she's gone withthe young Ballawhaine, what for aren't you going to England over andfetching her home?" says I. 

"And what did Cæsar say?"

"'No, ' says he, 'not a step, ' says he. 'If she's dead, ' says he, 'we'llonly know it a day the sooner, and if she's in life, it'll be a disgraceto us the longest day we live. '"

"Aw, bolla veen, bolla veen!" said Nancy. "When some men is gettingreligion there's no more inside at them than a gutted herring, andthey're good for nothing but to put up in the chimley to smook. "

"It's Black Tom, woman, " said Grannie. "Cæsar's freckened mortal of theman's tongue going. 'It's water to his wheel, ' he's saying. 'He'll betelling me to set my own house in order, and me a local preacher, too. 'But how's the man himself?"

"Pete?" said Nancy. "Aw, tired enough last night, and not down yet. . . . Hush!. . . It's his foot on the loft. "

"Poor boy! poor boy!" said Grannie. 

The child cried, and then somebody began to beat the floor to themeasure of a long-drawn hymn. Grannie must have been sitting before thefire with the baby across her knees. 

"Something has happened, " thought Pete as he drew on his clothes. Amoment later something had happened indeed. He had opened a drawer ofthe dressing-table and found the wedding-ring and the earrings whereKate had left them. There was a commotion in the room below by thistime, but Pete did not hear it. He was crying in his heart. "It iscoming! I know it! I feel it! God help me! Lord forgive me! Amen! Amen!"

Cæsar, the postman, and the constable, as a deputation from "TheChristians, " had just entered the house. Black Tom was with them. He wasthe ferret that had fetched them out of their holes. 

"Get thee home, woman, " said Cæsar to Grannie, "This is no place forthee. It is the abode of sin and deception. "

"It's the home of my child's child, and that's enough for me, " saidGrannie. 

"Get thee back, I tell thee, " said Cæsar, "and come thee to this houseof shame no more. "

"Take her, Nancy, " said Grannie, giving up the child. "Shame enough, indeed, I'm thinking, when a woman has to shut her heart to her ownflesh and blood if she's not to disrespect her husband, " and she wentoff, weeping. 

But Cæsar's emotions were walled in by his pietistical views. "Everyone that hath forsaken houses, or brethren, or sisters, or father, ormother, or wife, or children, or land, for My name's sake, shall receivean hundredfold, " said Cæsar, with a cast of his eye towards Black Tom. 

"Well, if I ever!" said Nancy. "The husband that wanted the like ofthat from me now. . . . A hundredfold, indeed! No, not for a hundredhundredfolds, the nasty dirt. "

"Don't he turning up your nose, woman, but call your master, " saidCæsar. 

"It's more than some ones need do, then, and I won't call my master, neither--no, thank you, " said Nancy. 

"I've something to tell him, and I've come, too, for to do it, " saidCæsar. 

"The devil came farther than ever you did, and it was only a lie he wasbringing for all that, " said Nancy. 

"Hould your tongue, Nancy Cain, " said Cæsar, "and take that Popish thingoff the child's head. " It was the scarlet hood. 

"Pity the money that's wasted on the like wasn't given to the poor. "

"I've heard something the same before, Cæsar Cregeen, " said Nancy. "Itwas Judas Iscariot was saying it first, and you're just thieving it froma thief. "

"Chut!" cried Cæsar, goaded by the laughter of Black Tom. "I'll call theman myself. Peter Quilliam!" and he made for the staircase door. 

"Stand back, " cried Nancy, holding the child like a pillow over one ofher arms, and lifting the other threateningly. 

"Aw, you'll never be raising your hand to the man of God, woman, "giggled Black Tom. 

"Won't I, though?" said Nancy grimly, "or the man of the devil either, "she added, flashing at himself. 

"The woman's not to trust, sir, " snuffled the constable. "She's only aninfidel, anyway. I've heard tell of her saying she didn't believe thewhale swallowed Jonah. "

"That's the diff'rance between us, then, " said Nancy; "for there's someof you Manx ones would believe if Jonah swallowed the whale. "

The staircase door opened at the back of Nancy, and Pete stepped intothe room. "What's this, friends?" he asked, in a careworn voice. 

Cæsar stepped forward with a yellow envelope in his hand. "What's_that_, sir?" he answered. 

Pete took the envelope and opened it. 

"That's your letter back to you through the dead letter office, isn'tit?" said Cæsar. 

"Well?" said Pete. 

"There's nobody of that name in that place, is there!" said Cæsar. 

"Well?" said Pete again. 

"Letters from England don't come through Peel, but your first letter hadthe Peel postmark, hadn't it?"

"Well?"

"Parcels from England don't come through Port St. Mary, but your parcelwas stamped in Port St. Mary, wasn't it?"

"Anything else?"

"The handwriting inside the letter wasn't your own handwriting, was it?The address on the outside of the parcel wasn't your own address--no?"

"Is that all?"

"Enough to be going on, I'm thinking. "

"What about Uncle Joe?" said Black Tom, with another giggle. 

"Your mistress is not in Liverpool. You don't know where she is. She hasgone the way of all sinners, " said Cæsar. 

"Is that what you're coming to tell me?" said Pete. 

"No; we're coming to tell you, " said Cæsar, "that, as a notorious looseliver, we must be putting her out of class. And we're coming to callon yourself to look to your own salvation. You've deceaved us, Mr. Quilliam. You've grieved the Spirit of the Lord, " with another"glime" in the direction of Black Tom; "you've brought contempt on thefellowship that counts you for one of the fold. You've given the lightof your countenance to the path of an evildoer, and you've brought downthe head of a child of God with sorrow to the grave. "

Cæsar was moved by his self-satisfied piety, and began to make' noisesin his nostrils. "Let us lay the case before the Lord, " he said; and hewent down on his knees and prayed--

"Our brother has deceived us, O Lord, but we forgive him freely. ForgiveThou also his trespasses, so that at the last he escape hell-fire. Countnot Thy handmaid for a daughter of Belial, wherever she is this day. Mayit be good for her to be cut off from the body of the righteous. Grantthat she feel this mercy in her carnal body before her eternal soul becalled to everlasting judgment. Lord, strengthen Thy servant. Let nothis natural affections be as the snare of the fowler unto his feet. Though it grieve him sore, even to tears and tribulation, help him topluck out the gourd that groweth in his own bosom----"

"Dear heart alive!" cried Nancy, clattering her clogs, "it's a wonderin the world the man isn't thinking shame to blacken his own daughterbefore the Almighty Himself. "

"Be merciful, O Lord, " continued Cæsar, "to all rank unbelievers, andsuch as live in heathen darkness in a Christian land, and don't knowSaturday from Sunday, and are imper-ent uncommon and bad with thetongue----"

"Stop that now. " cried Nancy, "that's meant for me. "

Pete had stood through this in silence, but with an angry, miserableface. 

"Beg pardon all, " he said. "I'm not going for denying to what you say. I'm like the fish at the heel of the trawl-boat--the net's closing in onme and I'm caught. The game's up. I did deceave you. I _did_ writethose letters myself. I've no Uncle Joe, nor no Auntie Joney neither. Mywife's left me. I'm not knowing where she is, or what's becoming of her. I'm done, and I'm for throwing up the sponge. "

There were grunts of satisfaction. "But don't you feel the need ofpardon, brother, " said Cæsar. 

"I don't, " said Pete. "What I was doing I was doing for the best, and, if I was doing wrong, the Almighty will have to forgive me--that's aboutall. "

Cæsar shot out his lip. Pete raised himself to his full height andlooked from face to face, until his eyes settled on the postman. 

"But it takes a thief to catch a thief, " he said. "Which of you was thethief that catcht me? Maybe I've been only a blundering blockhead, andperhaps you've been clever, and smart uncommon, but I'm thinking there'ssome of you hasn't been rocked enough for all that. "

He held out the yellow envelope. "This letter was sealed when you gaveit to me, Mr. Cregeen--how did you know what was inside of it? 'OnHer Majesty's Sarvice, ' you say. But it isn't dead letters only that'scoming with words same as that. "

The postman was meddling with his front hair. 

"The Lord has His own wayses of doing His work, has He, Cæsar? I neverheard tell, though, that opening other people's letters was one ofthem. "

Mr. Kelly's ferret eyes were nearly twinkling themselves out. 

Pete threw letter and envelope into the fire. "You've come to tell meyou're going to turn my wife out of class. All right! You can turn meout, too, and if the money I gave you is anywhere handy, you can turnthat out at the same time and make a clane job. "

Black Tom was doubling with suppressed laughter at the corner of thedresser, and Cæsar was writhing under his searching glances. 

"You're knowing a dale about the ould Book and I'm not knowing much, "said Pete, "but isn't it saying somewhere, 'Let him that's without sinamongst you chuck the first stone?' I'm not worth mentioning for a saintmyself, so I lave it with you. "

His voice began to break. "You're thinking a dale about the broken lawseemingly, but I'm thinking more about the broken heart. There's thelike in somewhere, you go bail. The woman that's gone may have donewrong--I'm not saying she didn't, poor thing; but if she comes homeagain, you may turn her out, but I'll take her back, whatever she is andwhatever she's done--so help me God I will--and I'll not wait for theDay of Judgment to ask the Almighty if I'm doing right. "

Then he sat down with his back to them on a chair before the fire. 

"Now you can go home to nurse, " said Nancy, wiping her eyes, "and laveme to sweeten the kitchen--it's wanting water enough after dirts likeyou. "

Cæsar also was wiping his eye--the one nearest to Black Tom. "Come, " hesaid with plaintive resignation, "our errand was useless. The Ethiopiancannot change his skin, nor the leopard his spots. "

"No, but he can get a topcoat to cover them, though, " said Nancy. "Oh, that flea sticks, does it, Cæsar? Don't blame the looking-glass if yourface is ugly. "

Cæsar pretended not to hear her. "Well, " he said, with a sigh dischargedat Pete's back, "we'll pray, spite of appearances, that we may all go toheaven together some day. "

"No, thank you, not me, " said Nancy. "I wouldn't be-mane myself goinganywhere with the like of you. "

The Job in Cæsar could bear up no longer. "Vain and ungrateful woman, "he cried, "who hath eaten of my bread and drunken of my cup----"

"Cursing me, are you?" said Nancy. "Sakes! you must have been found inthe bulrushes at Pharaoh's daughter and made a prophet of. "

"No use bandying words, sir, wid a single woman dat lives alone wid asingle man, " said Mr. Niplightly. 

Nancy flopped the child from her right arm to her left, and with theback of her hand she slapped the constable across the face. "Take thatfor the cure of a bad heart, " she said, "and tell the Dempster I gave ityou. "

Then she turned on the postman and Black Tom. "Out of it, you lil thief, your mouth's only a dirty town-well and your tongue's the pump in it. Gohome and die, you big black spider--you're ould enough for it and wickedenough, too. Out of it, the lot of you!" she cried, and clashed the doorat their backs, and then opened it again for a parting shot. "And ifit's true you're on your way to heaven together, just let me know, andI'll see if I can't put up with the other place myself. "

XIX. 

That evening Pete was sitting with one foot on the cradle rocker, onearm on the table, and the other hand trifling tenderly with the ringand the earrings which he had found in the drawer of the dressing-table, when there was a hurried knock on the door. It had the hollowreverberation of a knock on the lid of a coffin. 

"Come in, " called Pete. 

It was Philip, but it was almost as if Death had entered, so thin andbony were his cheeks, so wild his eyes, so cold his hands. 

Pete was prepared for anything. "You've found me out, too, I see youhave, " he said defiantly. "You needn't tell _me_--it's chasing caughtfish. "

"Be brave, Pete, " said Philip. "It will be a great shock to you. "

Pete looked up and his manner changed. "Speak it out, sir. It's a poorman that can't stand----"

"I've come on the saddest errand, " said Philip, taking a seat as faraway as possible. 

"You've found her--you've seen her, sir. Where is she?"

"She is----" began Philip, and then he stopped. 

"Go on, mate; I've known trouble before to-day, " said Pete. 

"Can you bear it?" said Philip. "She is----" and he stopped again. 

"She is--where?" said Pete. 

"She is dead, " said Philip at last. 

Pete rose to his feet. Philip rose also, and now poured out his messagewith the headlong rush of a cataract. 

"In fact, it all happened some time ago, Pete, but I couldn'tbring myself to tell you before. I tried, but I couldn't. It was inDouglas--of a fever--in a lodging--alone--unattended----"

"Hould hard, sir! Give me time, " said Pete. "I'd a gunshot woundat Kimberley, and since then I've a stitch in my side at whiles andsometimes a bit of a catch in my breathing. "

He staggered to the porch door and threw it open, then came backpanting--"Dead! dead! Kate is dead!"

Nancy came from the kitchen at the moment, and hearing what he wassaying, she lifted both hands and uttered a piercing shriek. He tookher by the shoulders and turned her back, shut the door behind her, andsaid, holding his right hand hard at his side, "Women are brave, sir, but when the storm breaks on a man----" He broke off and muttered again, "Dead! Kirry is dead!"

The child, awakened by Nancy's cry, was now whimpering fretfully. Petewent to the cradle and rocked it with one foot, crooning in a quaveringtreble, "Hush-a-bye! hush-a-bye!"

Philip's breathing was oppressed. He felt like a man at the edge of aprecipice, with an impulse to throw himself over. "God forgive me, " hesaid. "I could kill myself. I've broken your heart;----"

"No fear of me, sir, " said Pete. "I'm an ould hulk that's seen weather. I'll not go to pieces from inside at all. Give me time, mate, giveme time. " And then he went on muttering as before, "Dead! Kirry dead!Hush-a-bye! My Kirry dead!"

The little one slept, and Pete drew back in his chair, nodded into thefire, and said in a weak, childish voice, "I've known her all my life, d'ye know? She's been my lil sweetheart since she was a slip of a girl, and slapped the schoolmaster for bating me wrongously. Swate lil thingin them days, mate, with her brown feet and tossing hair. And now she'sa woman and she's dead! The Lord have mercy upon me!"

He got up and began to walk heavily across the floor, dipping andplunging as if going upstairs. "The bright and happy she was when Istarted for Kimberley, too; with her pretty face by the aising stones inthe morning, all laughter and mischief. Five years I was seeing it in mydrames like that, and now it's gone. Kirry is gone! My Kirry! God helpme! O God, have mercy upon me!"

He stopped in his unsteady walk, and sat and stared into the fire. Hiseyes were red; blotches of heart's blood seemed to be rising to them;but there was not the sign of a tear. Philip did not attempt to consolehim. He felt as if the first syllable would choke in his throat. 

"I see how it's been, sir, " said Pete. "While I was away her heart waschanging her, and when I came back she thought she must keep her word. My poor lamb! She was only a child anyway. But I was a man--I ought tohave seen how it was. I'm like a drowning man, too--things are comingback on me. I'm seeing them plain enough now. But it's too late! My poorKirry! And I thought I was making her so happy!" Then, with a helplesslook, "You wouldn't believe it, sir, but I was never once thinkingnothing else. No, I wasn't; it's a fact. I was same as a sailor workingall the voyage home, making a cage, and painting it goold, for thelove-bird he's catcht in the sunny lands somewhere; but when he'sputting it in, it's only wanting away, poor thing. "

With a sense of grovelling meanness, Philip sat and listened. Then, witheyes wandering across the floor, he said, "You have nothing to reproachyourself with. You did everything a man could do--everything. And shewas innocent also. It was the fault of another. He came betweenyou. Perhaps he thought he couldn't help it--perhaps he persuadedhimself--God knows what lie he told himself--but she's innocent, Pete;believe me, she's----"

Pete brought his fist down heavily on the table, and the rings that layon it jumped and tingled. "What's that to me?" he cried hoarsely. "Whatdo I care if she's innocent or guilty? She's dead, isn't she? and that'senough. Curse the man! I don't want to hear of him. She's mine now. Whatfor should he come here between me and my own?"

The torn heart and racked brain could bear no more. Pete dropped hishead on the table. Presently his anger ebbed. Without lifting hishead, he stretched his hand across the rings to feel for Philip's hand. Philip's hand trembled in his grasp. He took that for sympathy, andbecame the more ashamed. 

"Give me time, mate, " he said. "I'll be my own man soon. My head'smoithered dreadful--I'm not knowing if I heard you right. In Douglas, you say? By herself, too? Not by herself, surely? Not quite aloneneither? She found you out, didn't she? _You'd_ be there, Phil? You'd bewith her yourself? She'd be wanting for nothing?"

Philip answered huskily, his eyes still wandering. "If it will be anycomfort to you. . . Yes, I _was_ with her--she wanted for nothing. "

"My poor girl!" said Pete. "Did she send--had she any--maybe she said aword or two--at the last, eh?"

Philip clutched at the question. There was something at last that hecould say without falsehood. "She sent a prayer for your forgiveness, "he said. "She told me to tell you to think of her as little as might be;not to grieve for her too much, and to try to forget her, so that hersin also might be forgotten. "

"And the lil one--anything about the lil one?" asked Pete. 

"That was the bitterest grief of all, " said Philip. "It was so hardthat you must think her an unnatural mother. 'My Katherine! My littleKatherine! My sweet angel!' It was her cry the whole day long. "

"I see, I see, " said Pete, nodding at the fire; "she left the lilone for my sake, wanting it with her all the while. Poor thing! You'dcomfort her, Philip? You'd let her go aisy?"

"'The child is well and happy, ' I told her. 'He's thinking nothing ofyourself but what is good and kind, ' I said. "

"God's peace rest on her! My darling! My wife!" said Pete solemnly. Thensuddenly in another tone, "Do you know where she's buried?"

Philip hesitated. He had not foreseen this question. Where had been hishead that he had never thought of it? But there was no going back now. He was compelled to go on. He must tell lie on lie. "Yes, " he faltered. 

"Could you take me to the grave?"

Philip gasped; the sweat broke out on his forehead. 

"Don't be freckened, sir, " said Pete; "I'm my own man again. Could youtake me to my wife's grave?"

"Yes, " said Philip. He was in the rapids. He was on the edge ofprecipitation. He was compelled to go over. He made a blindfold plunge. Lie on lie; lie on lie!

"Then we'll start by the coach to-morrow, " said Pete. 

Philip rose with rigid limbs. He had meant to tell one lie only, andalready he had told many. Truly "a lie is a cripple;" it cannot standalone. "Good night, Pete; I'll go home. I'm not well to-night. "

"We'll stop the coach at your aunt's gate in the morning, " said Pete. 

They stepped to the door together, and stood for a moment in the dankand lifeless darkness. 

"The world's getting wonderful lonely, man, and you're all that's leftto me now, Phil--you and the child. I'm not for wailing, though. WhenI got my gun-shot wound out yonder, I was away over the big veldt, hundreds of miles from anywhere, behind the last bush and the last bladeof grass, with the stones and the ashes and the dust--about as far, you'd say, as the world was finished, and never looking to see herselfand the ould island and the ould faces no more. I'm not so lonesome asthat at all. Good-night, ould fellow, and God bless you!"

The gate opened and closed, Philip went stumbling up the road. He washating Pete. To hate this open-hearted man who had dragged him into anentanglement of lies was the only resource of his stifled conscience. 

Pete went back to the house, muttering, "Kirry is dead! Kirry is dead!"He put the catch on the door, said, "Close the shutters, Nancy, " andthen returned to his chair by the cradle. 

XX. 

Later the same night Pete carried the news to Sulby. Grannie was in thebar-room, and he broke it to her gently, tenderly, lovingly. 

Loud voices came from the kitchen. Cæsar was there in angry contentionwith Black Tom. An open Bible was between them on their knees. Tomtugged it towards him, bobbed his blunt forefinger down on the page, andcried, "There's the text--that'll pin you--_publicans and sinners_. "

Cæsar leaned back'in his seat, and said with withering scorn, "It's abad business--I'll give you lave to say that. It's men like you that'smaking it bad. But whether is it better for a bad business to be in badhands or in good ones? There's a big local praicher in London, they'retelling me, that's hot for joining the public-house to the church, andturning the parsons into the publicans. That's what they all were onthe Isle of Man in ould days gone by, and pity they're not so still. Oh, I've been giving it my sarious thoughts, sir. I've been making ita subject for prayer. 'Will I give up my public or hould fast to it tokeep it out of worse hands?' And I'm strong to believe the Lord hathspoken. 'It's a little vineyard--a little work in a little vineyard. Stick to it, Cæsar, ' and so I will. "

Pete stepped into the kitchen and flung his news at Cæsar with a sort ofwild melancholy, as who would say, "There, is that enough for you? Areyou satisfied now?"

"_Mair yee shoh_--it's the hand of God, " said Cæsar. 

"A middling bad hand then, " said Pete; "I've seen better, anyway. "

A high spiritual pride took hold of Cæsar--Black Tom was watching him, and working his big eyebrows vigorously. With mouth firmly shut and headthrown back, Cæsar said in a sepulchral voice, "The Lord gave, and theLord hath taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord!"

Pete made a crack of savage laughter. 

"Aren't you feeling it, sir?" said Cæsar. 

"Not a feel near me, " said Pete. "I never did the Lord no harm that Iknow of, but He's taken my young wife and left my poor innocent lil onemotherless. "

"Unsearchable the wisdom and justice of God, " said Cæsar. 

"Unsearchable?" said Pete. "It's all that. But I don't know if you'recalling it justice. I'm not myself. It isn't my tally. Blasphemy? I laveit with you. A scoffer, am I? So be it. The Lord's licked me, and I'vehad enough. But I'm not going down on my knees for it, anyway. TheAlmighty and me is about quits. "

With that word on his lips he strode out of the place, grim, implacable, almost savage, a fierce smile fluttering on his ashy face. 

XXI. 

Grannie came to Elm Cottage next morning with two duck eggs for Pete'sbreakfast. She was boiling them in a saucepan when Pete came downstairs. 

"Come now, " she said coaxingly, as she laid them on the table, with thewater smoking off the shells. But Pete could not eat. 

"He hasn't destroyed any food these days, " said Nancy. A little beforeshe had rolled her apron, slipped out into the street, and brought backa tiny packet screwed up in a bit of newspaper. 

"Perhaps he'll ate them on the road, " said Grannie. "I'll put them inthe hankerchief in his hat anyway. "

"My faith, no, woman!" cried Nancy. "He's the mischief for sweating. He'll be mopping his forehead and forgetting the eggs. But here--where'syour waistcoat pocket, Pete? Have you room for a hayseed anywhere?There!. . . It's a quarter of twist, poor boy, " she whispered behind herhand to Grannie. 

Thus they vied with each other in little attentions to the down-heartedman. Meantime Crow, the driver of the Douglas coach, a merry old sinnerwith a bulbous nose and short hair, standing erect like the steel pinsof an electric brush, was whistling as he put his horses to in themarketplace. Presently he swirled round the corner and drew up at thegate. The women then became suddenly quiet, and put their aprons totheir mouths, as if a hearse had stopped at the door; but Pete bustledabout and shouted boisterously to cover the emotion of his farewell. 

"Good-bye, Grannie; I'll say a word for you when I get there. Good-bye, Nancy; I'll not be forgetting yourself neither. Good bye, lil bogh, "dropping on one knee at the side of the cradle. "What right has a man'sheart to be going losing him while he has a lil innocent like this tolive for? Good-bye!"

There was a throng of women at the gate talking of Kate. "Aw, a civilperson, very--a civiller person never was. "--"It's me that'll be missingher too. I served her eggs to the day of her death, as you might say. 'Good morning, Christian Anne, ' says she--just like that. Welcome, yousay? I was at home at the woman's door. "--"And the beautiful she camehome in the gig with the baby! Only yesterday you might say. And now, Lord-a-massy!"--"Hush! it's himself! I'm fit enough to cry when I lookat the man. The cheerful heart is broke at him. "--"Hush!"

They dropped their heads so that Pete might avoid their gaze, and heldthe coach-door open for him, expecting that he would go inside, as to afuneral. But he saluted them with "Good morning all, " and leapt to thebox-seat with Crow. 

The coach stopped to take up the Deemster at the gate of Ballure House. Philip looked thin and emaciated, and walked with a death-like weakness, but also a feverish resolution. Behind him, carrying a rag, came AuntyNan in her white cap, with little nervous attentions, and a face full ofanxiety. 

"Drive inside to-day, Philip, " she said. 

"No, no, " he answered, and kissed her, pushed her to the other side ofthe gate with gentle protestation, and climbed to Pete's side. Then theold lady said--

"Good-morning, Peter. I'm so sorry for your great trouble, and trust. . . But you'll not let the Deemster ride too long outside if it grows. . . He's had a sleepless night and----"

"Go on, Crow, " said Philip, in a decisive voice. 

"I'll see to that, Miss Christian, ma'am, " shouted Crow over hisshoulder. "His honour's studdying a bit too hard--that's what _he_is. But a gentleman's not much use if his wife's a widow, as the mansaid--eh? Looking well enough yourself, though, Miss Christian, ma'am. Getting younger every day, in fact. I'll have to be fetching that EastIndee capt'n up yet. I will that. Ha! ha! Get on, Boxer!" Then, with aflick of the whip, they were off on their journey. 

The day was calm and beautiful. Old Barrule wore his yellow skull-cap offlowering gorse, the birds sang on the trees, and the sea on the shoresang also with the sound of far-off joy-bells. It was a heart-breakingday to Pete, but he tried to bear himself bravely. 

He was seated between Philip and the driver. On the farther side of Crowthere were two other passengers, a farmer and a fisherman. The farmer, afoul-mouthed fellow with a long staff and two dogs racing and barkingon the road, was returning from Midsummer fair, at which he had soldhis sheep; the fisherman, a simple creature, was coming home from themackerel-fishing at Kinsale, with a box of the fish between his legs. 

"The wife's been having a lil one since I was laving in March, " saidthe fisherman, laughing all over his bronzed face. "A boy, d'ye say?Aw, another boy, of coorse. Three of them now--all men. Got a letter atRamsey post-office coming through. She's getting on as nice as nice, andthe ould woman's busy doing for her. "

"Gee up, Boxer--we'll wet its head at the Hibernian, " said Crow. 

"I'm not partic'lar at all, " said the fisherman cheerily. "Themack'rel's been doing middling this season, anyway. "

And then in his simple way he went on to paint home, and the joy ofcoming back to it, with the new baby, and the mother in child-bed, andthe grandmother as housekeeper, and the other children waiting for newfrocks and new jackets out of the earnings of the fishing, and himselfgoing round to pay the grocer what had been put on "strap" while he wasat Kin-sale, till Pete was melted, and could listen no longer. 

"I'm persuaded still she wasn't well when she went away, " he whispered, turning his shoulder to the men and his face to Philip. He talked ina low voice, just above the rumble of the wheels, trying to extenuateKate's fault and to excuse her to Philip. 

"It's no use thinking hard of anybody, is it, sir?" he said. "We can'tcrawl into another person's soul, as the saying is. "

After that he asked many questions--about Kate's illness, about thedoctor, about the funeral, about everything except the man--of him heasked nothing. Philip was compelled to answer. He was like a prisonerchained at the galleys--he was forced to go on. They crossed the bridgeover the top of Ballaglass, which goes down to the mill at Cornaa. 

"There's the glen, sir, " said Pete. "Aw, the dear ould days! Wading inthe water, leaping over the stones, clambering on the trunks--aw, dear!aw, dear! Bareheaded and barefooted in those times, sir; but smartextraordinary, and a terble notion of being dressy, too. Twisting fernsabout her lil neck for lace, sticking a mountain thistle, sparkling withdew, on her breast for a diamond, twining a trail of fuchsia round herhead for a crown--aw, dear! aw, dear! And now--well, well, to think! tothink!"

There was laughter on the other side of the coach. 

"What do _you_ say, Capt'n Pete?" shouted Crow. 

"What's that?" asked Pete. 

The fisherman had treated the driver and the farmer at the Hibernian, and was being rewarded with robustious chaff. 

"I'm telling Dan Johnny here these childers that's coming when a man'saway from home isn't much to trust. Best put a sight up with the lil oneto the wise woman of Glen Aldyn, eh? A man doesn't like to bring up acuckoo in the nest--what d'ye say, Capt'n?"

"I say you're a dirty ould divil, Crow; and I don't want to be chuckingyou off your seat, " said Pete; and with that he turned back to Philip. *

The driver was affronted, but the farmer pacified him by an appeal tohis fear. "He'd be coarse to tackle, the same fellow--I saw him claneout a tent with one hand at Tyn-wald. "

"It's a wonder she didn't come home for all, " said Pete at Philip'sear--"at the end, you know. Couldn't face it out, I suppose? Nothing tobe afraid of, though, if she'd only known. I had kept things middlingstraight up to then. And I'd have broke the head of the first man that'dwagged a tongue. But maybe it was myself she was freckened of! Freckenedof me! Poor thing! poor thing!"

Philip was in torment. To witness Pete's simple grief, to hear himbreathe a forgiveness for the erring woman, and to be trusted with thethoughts of his heart as a father might be trusted by a young child--itwas anguish, it was agony, it was horror. More than once he felt animpulse to cast off his load, to confess, to tell everything. But hereflected that he had no right to do this--that the secret was not hisown to give away. His fear restrained him also. He looked into Pete'sface, so full of manly sorrow, and shuddered to think of it transformedby rage. 

"Sit hard, gentlemen. Breeches' work here, " shouted Crow. 

They were at the top of the steep descent going down to Laxey. Thewhite town lay sprinkled over the green banks of the glen, and the greatwater-wheel stood in the depths of the mountain gill behind it. 

"She's there! She's yonder! It's herself at the door. She's up. She'slooking out for the coach, " cried the fisherman, clambering up on to theseat. 

"Aisy all, " shouted Crow. 

"No use, Mr. Crow. Nothing will persuade me but that's herself with thelil one in a blanket at the door. "

Before the coach had drawn up at the bridge, the fisherman had leaptto the ground, shouldered his keg, shouted "Good everin' all, " anddisappeared down an alley of the town. 

The driver alighted. A crowd gathered around. There were parcels to takeup, parcels to set down, and the horses to water. When the coach wasready to start again, the farmer with his dogs had gone, but there was apassenger for an inside place. It was a girl, a bright young thing, witha comely face and laughing black eyes. She was dressed smartly, afterher country fashion, in a hat covered with scarlet poppies, and with avast brooch at the neck of her bodice. In one hand she carried a hugebunch of sweet-smelling gilvers. A group of girl companions came to seeher off, and there was much giggling and chatter and general excitement. 

"Are you forgetting the pouch and pipe, Emma?"

"Let me see; am I? No; it's here in my frock. "

"Well, you'll be coming together by the coach at nine, it's like?"

"It's like we will, Liza, if the steamer isn't late. "

"Now then, ladies, off the step! Any room for a lil calf' in the strawwith you, missy? Freckened? Tut! Only a lil calf, as clane as clane--andbreath as swate as your own, miss. There you are--it'll be lying quietenough till we get to Douglas. All ready? Ready we are then. Collar worknow, gentlemen. Aise the horse, sir. Thank you! Thank you! Not you, yourHonour--sit where you are, Dempster. "

XXII. 

Pete got down to walk up the hill, but Philip, though he made some showof alighting also, was glad of the excuse to remain in his seat. Itrelieved him of Pete's company for a while, at all events. He had timeto ask himself again why he was there, where he was going to, and whathe was going to do. But his brain was a cloudy waste. Only one pictureemerged from the maze. It was that of the burial of the nameless waif inthe grave at the foot of the wall. If he was conscious of any purpose, it was a vague idea of going to that grave. But it lay ahead of him onlyas an ultimate goal. He was waiting and watching for an opportunity ofescape. If it came, God be praised! If it did not come, God help andforgive him!

Meanwhile Pete walked behind, and caught fragments of a conversationbetween the girl and Crow. 

"So you're going to meet himself coming home, miss, eh?"

"My faith, how d'ye know that? But it's yourself for knowing things, Mr. Crow. Has he been sailing foreign? Yes, sir; and nine months away fora week come Monday. But spoken at Holyhead in Tuesday's paper, and paidoff in Liverpool yesterday. That's his 'nitials, if you want to know--J. W. I worked them on the pouch myself. I've spun him a web for a jacket, too. Sweethearting with the miner fellows while Jemmy's been away? HaveI, d'ye say? How people _will_ be talking!"

"Aw, no offence at all. But sorry you're not keeping another string toyour bow, missy. These sailor lads aren't partic'lar, anyway. Bless yourheart, no; but getting as tired of one swateheart as a pig of brewer'sgrain. Constant? Chut! When the like of that sort is away foreign, helays up of the first girl he comes foul of. "

The girl laughed, and shook her head bravely, but the tears werebeginning to trickle from her eyes, and the hand that held the flowerswas trembling. 

"Don't listen to the man, my dear, " said Pete. "There's too much comicin these ould bachelor bucks. Your boy is dying to get home to you. Gobail on that, Emma. The packet isn't making half way enough for him, andhe's bad dreadful wanting to ship aloft and let out the topsail. "

At the crest of the hill Pete climbed back to Philip's side, andsaid, "The heart's a quare thing, sir. Got its winds and tides same asanything else. The wind blows contrary ways in one day, and it's thesame with the heart itself. Changeable? Well, maybe! We shouldn't be toohard on it for all. . . . If I'd only known now. . . . She wasn't much betterthan a child when I left for Kimberley. . . And then what was I? I wasonly common stuff anyway. . . Not much fit for the likes of herself, whenyou think of it, sir. . . . If I'd only guessed when I came back. . . . Icould have done it, sir--I was loving the woman like life, but if I'donly known, now. . . . Well, and what's love if it's thinking of nothingbut itself? If I'd thought she was loving another man by the time I camehome, I could have given her up to him--yes, I could; I'm persuaded Icould---so help me God, I could. "

Philip was wasting on that journey like a piece of wax. Pete saw hisface melting away till it looked more like a skeleton than the face of àman really alive. 

"You mustn't be taking it so bad at all, Phil, " said Pete. "She'll bemiddling right where she's gone to, sir. She'll be right enough yonder, "he said, rolling his head sideways to where the sun was going round toits setting. And then softly, as if half afraid she might not be, hemuttered into his beard, "God be good to my poor broken-hearted girl, and forgive her sins for Christ's sake. "

An elderly gentleman got on the coach at Onchan. 

"Helloa, Deemster!" he cried. "You look as sober as an old crow. Sober!Old Crow! Ha, ha!"

He was a facetious person of high descent in the island. 

"Crow never goes home without getting off the box once or twice to pickup the moonlight on the road--do you, Crow?"

"That'll do, parson, that'll do!" roared Crow. And then his reverenceleaned across the driver and directed the shaft of his wit at Philip. 

"And how's the young housekeeper, Deemster?"

Philip shuddered visibly, and made some inarticulate reply--

"Good-looking young woman, they're telling me. Jem-y-Lord's got taste, seemingly. But take care, your Honour; take care! 'Thou shalt not covetthy neighbour's wife, nor his ox, nor his ass'----"

Philip laughed noisily. The miserable man was writhing in his seat. 

"Take an old fiddler's advice, Deemster--have nothing to do with thewomen. When they're young they're kittens to play with you, but whenthey're old they're cats to scratch you. "

Pete twisted his body until the whole breadth of his back blocked theparson from Philip's face. 

"A fortnight ago, you were saying, sir?"

"A fortnight, " muttered Philip. 

"There'll be daisies growing on her grave by this time, " said Petesoftly. 

The parson had put up his nose-glasses. "Who's this fellow, Crow?Captain--what? His honour's cousin? _Cousin?_ Oh, of course--yes--Iremember--Tynwald--ah--h'm!"

The coach set down its passengers in the market-place. Pete inquired thehour of its return journey, and was told that it started back at six. Hehelped the girl to alight, and directed her to the pier, where a crowdof people' were awaiting the arrival of the steamer. Then he rejoinedPhilip, who led the way through the town. 

The Deemster was observed by everybody. As he passed along the streetsthere was much whispering and nudging, and some bowing and liftingof hats. He responded to none of it He recognised no one. He, who wasfamous for courtesy, renowned for gracious manners, beloved for a smilelike sunshine--the brighter and more winsome when it broke as from acloud--returned no man's salutation that day, and replied to no woman'sgreeting. His face was set hard like a marble mask. It passed alongwithout appearing to see. 

Pete walked one step behind. They did not speak as they went throughthe town. Not a word or a sign passed between them. Philip turned intoa side street, and drew up at an iron gate which opened on to achurchyard. They were at the churchyard of St. George's. 

"This is the place, " said Philip huskily. 

Pete took off his hat. 

The gate was partly open. It was Saturday, and the organist was alone inthe church practising hymns for Sunday's services. They passed through. 

The churchyard was an oblong enclosure within high walls, overlooked onits long sides by rows of houses. One of these rows was Athol Street, and one of the houses was the Deemster's. 

It was late afternoon by this time. Long shadows were cast eastwardfrom the tombstones; the horizontal sunlight was making the leaves verylight. 

Philip walked noisily, jerkily, irregularly, like a man conscious ofweakness and determined to conquer it. Pete walked behind, so softlythat his foot on the gravel was hardly to be heard. The organist wasplaying Cowper's familiar hymn--

 "God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform. "

There was a broad avenue, bordered by railed tombs, leading to thechurch-door. Philip turned out of this into a narrow path which wentthrough a bare green space, that was dotted with pegs of wood and littleunhewn slabs of slate, like an abandoned quoit ground. At the farthestcorner of this space he stopped before a mound near to the wall. It wasthe new-made grave. The scars of the turf were still unhealed, and theglist of the spade was on the grass. 

Philip hesitated a moment, and looked round at Pete, as if even then, even there, he would confess. But he saw no escape from the mesh of hisown lies, and with a deep, breath of submission he pointed down, turnedhis head over his shoulder, and said in a strange voice--

"There. "

The silence was long and awful. At length Pete said in a brokenwhisper--

"Lave me, sir, lave me. "

Philip turned away, breathing audibly. A moment longer Pete stood wherehe was, gripping his hat with both hands in front of him. Then he wentdown on his knees. "Oh, forgive me my hard thoughts of thee, " he said. "Jesus, forgive me my hard thoughts of my poor Kirry. "

Philip heard no more. The organ was very loud and triumphant. 

 "Deep in unfathomable mines Of never-failing skill, He treasures up His bright designs And works His sovereign will. "

A red shaft of sunlight tipped down on Pete's uncovered head from thetop of the wall. The blessed tears had come to him. He was sobbingaloud; he was alone with his love at last. 

He was alone with her indeed. At that moment Kate was looking down fromthe window of her room. She saw him kneeling and praying by another'sgrave. 

Philip never knew how he got out of the churchyard. He crawledout--creeping along by the wall, and slinking through thegate--heart-sick and all but heart-dead. When he came to himself, hewas standing in Athol Street, and a company of jolly fellows in ajaunting-car, driving out of the golden sunset, were rattling past himwith shouts and peals of laughter. 

XXIII. 

Kate was standing in her room with the door open, beating her handstogether in the first helpless stupor of fear, when she saw a man comingup the stairs. His legs seemed to be giving way as he ascended; he wasbent and feeble, and had all the look of great age. As he approached helifted his face, which was old and withered. Then she saw who it was. Itwas Philip. 

She made an involuntary cry, and he smiled upon her--a hard, frozen, terrible smile. "He is lost, " she thought. Her scared expressionpenetrated to his soul. He knew that she had seen everything. At firsthe tried to speak, but he could utter nothing. Then a mad desire seizedhim to lay hold of her--by the arms, by the shoulders, by the throat. Conquering this impulse, he stood motionless, passing his hands throughhis hair. She dropped her eyes and hung her head. Their abasement ineach other's eyes was complete. He was ashamed before her, she wasashamed before him. One moment they faced each other thus, in silence, in pitiless and awful silence, and then slowly, very slowly, stupefiedand crushed, he turned away and crept out of the house. 

"It is the end--the end. " What was the use of going farther? Hehad fallen too low. His degradation was abject. It was hopeless, irreparable, irremediable. "End it all--end it all. " The words clamouredin his inmost soul. 

Halting down the quay, he made for the ferry steps, where boats werewaiting for hire. He had lately hired one of an evening, and pulledround the Head for the sake of the breath and the silence of the sea. 

"Going far out this evening, your Honor?" the boatman asked. 

"Farther than ever, " he answered. 

Pull, pull! Away from the terrible past. Away from the horrible present. The steamer had arrived, and had discharged her passengers. She wasstill pulsing at the end of the red pier like a horse that pants afterrunning a race. 

A band was playing a waltz somewhere on the promenade. Pleasure boatswere darting about the bay. Sea-birds were sitting on the water wherethe sewers of the gay little town empty into the sea. 

Pull, pull! He was flying from remorse, from despair, from the deepduplicity of a double life, from the lie that had slain the heart of aliving man. How low he had fallen! Could he fall lower without fallinginto crime?

Pull, pull! He would be a criminal next. When a man had been degradedin his own eyes, and in the eyes of her he loved, crime stood beckoninghim. He might try, but he could not resist; he must yield, he must fall. It was the only degradation remaining. Better end everything beforedropping into that last abyss. 

Pull, pull! He was the judge of his island, and he had outraged justice. Holding a false title, living on a false honour, he was safe of no man'srespect, secure of no woman's goodwill. Exposure hung over him. He wouldbe disgraced, the law would be disgraced, the island would be disgraced. Pull, pull, pull, before it is too late; out, far out, farther than tidereturns, or sea tells stories to the shore. 

He had rowed like a slave escaping from his chains, in terror of beingovertaken and dragged back. The voices of the harbour were now hushed, the music of the band was deadened, the horses running along thepromenade seemed to creep like ants, and the traffic of the streets wasno louder than a dull subterranean rumble. He had shot out of the marginof smooth blue water in which the island lay as on a mirror, and out ofthe shadow of the hill upon the bay. The sea about him now was runninggreen and glistening, and the red sun-? light was coming down on it likesmoke. Only the steeples and towers and glass domes of the town reachedup into luminous air. He could see the squat tower of St. George'ssilhouetted against the dying glory of the sky. Seven years he had beenits neighbour, and it had witnessed such happy and such cruel hours. Allthe joy of work, the sweetness of success, the dreams of greatness, therosy flushes of love, and then--the tortures of conscience, the visions, the horror, the secret shame, the self-abandonment, and, last of all, the twofold existence as of husband with wife, hidden, incomplete, unfulfilled, yet full of tender ties which had seemed like galling bondsso many a time, but were now so sweet when the hour had come to breakthem. 

How distant it all appeared to be! And was he flying from the islandlike this? The island that had honoured him, that had rewarded himbeyond his deserts, and earlier than his dreams, that had suffered nojealousy to impede him, no rivalry to fret him, no disparity of age andservice to hold him back--the little island that had seemed to open itsarms to him, and to cry, "Philip Christian, son of your father, grandsonof your grandfather, first of Manxmen, come up!"

Oh, for what might have been! Useless regrets! Pull, pull, and forget. 

But the home of his childhood! Ballure--Auntie Nan--his father's deathbrightened by one hope--the last, but ah! how vain!--Port Mooar--Pete, "The sea's calling me. " Pull, pull! The sea was calling him indeed. Calling him to the deep womb that is death, not birth. 

He was far out. The sun had gone, the island was like a bird of ashygrey stretched across the horizon; the great wing of night was comingdown from the sky, and up out the mysterious depths of the sea came theprofound hum, the mighty voice that is the organ of the world. 

He took in the oars, and his tiny shell began to drift At that momenthis eye caught something at the bottom of the boat. It was a flower, abroken stem, a torn rose, and a few scattered rose leaves. Only a relicof the last occupants, but it brought back the perfume of love, a senseof tenderness, of bright eyes, of a caress, a kiss. His mind went backto Sulby, to the Melliah, to the glen, to the days so full of tremulouslove, when they hovered on the edge of the precipice. They had beenhurled over it since then. It was some relief that between love andhonour he would not have to struggle any longer. 

And Kate? When all was over and word went round, "The Deemster is gone, "what would happen to Kate? She would still be at his house in AtholStreet. That would be the beginning of evil! She would wait for him, andwhen hope of his return was lost, she would weep for him. That would bethe key of discovery! The truth would become known. Though he might beat the bottom of the sea, yet the cloud that hung over his life wouldbreak. It was inevitable. And she would be there to bear the stormalone--alone with the island which had been deceived, alone with Pete, who had been lied to and betrayed. Was that just? Was that brave?

And then--what then? What would become of her? Openly shamed, charged, as she must be, with the whole weight of the crime from whose burdenhe had fled, accused of his downfall, a Delilah, a Jezebel, what fateshould befall her? Where would she go? Down to what depths? He sawher sinking lower than ever man sinks; he heard her appeals, hersupplications. 

"Oh, what have I done, " he cried, "that I can neither live nor die?"

Then in that delirium of anguish in which the order of nature isreversed, and external objects no longer produce sensation, butsensation produces, as it were, external objects, he thought he sawsomething at the bottom of the boat where the broken rose had been. Itwas the figure of a man, stretched out, still and lifeless. His eyeswent up to the face. The face was his own. It was ashy grey, and itstared up at the grey sky. The brain image was himself, and he wasdead. He watched it, and it faded away. There was nothing left but thescattered rose-leaves and the torn flower on the broken stem. 

The terrible shadow was gone; he felt that it was gone for ever. It wasdead, and it would haunt him no longer. It had lived on an empire ofevil-doing, and his evil-doing was at an end. He would "see his soul" nomore. The tears gushed to his eyes and blinded him. They were the firsthe could remember since he was a boy. Alone between the two mirrors ofsea and sky, the chain that he had dragged so long fell: away from him. He was a free man again. 

"Go back! your place is by her side. Don't sneak out of life, and leaveanother to pay. Suffering is a grand thing. It is the struggle of thesoul to cast off its sin. Accept it, go through with it, come out of itpurged. Go back to the island. Your life is not ended yet. "

XXIV. 

"We were just going sending a lil yawl after you, Dempster, when we wereseeing you a bit overside the head yonder coming back. 'He's driftinghome on the flowing tide, ' says I, and so you were. Must have been amiddling stiff pull for all. We were thinking you were lost one whilethere. "

"I _was_ almost lost, but I'm here again, thank God, " said Philip. 

He spoke cheerily, and went away with a light step. It was now fullnight; the town was lit up, and the musicians of the pavement weretwanging their banjos and harps. Philip felt a sort of physicalregeneration, a renewal of youth, a new birth of heart and hope. He waslike a man coming out of some hideous Gehenna of delirious illness;he though he had never been so light, so buoyant, so happy in his lifebefore. The future was vague. He did not yet know what he would do. Itwould be something radical, something that would go down to the heartof his condition. Oh, he would be strong, he would be resolute, he wouldpay the uttermost farthing, he would not wait to count the cost. Andshe--she would be with him. He could do nothing without her. The partnerof his fault would share his redemption also. God bless her!

He let himself into the house and shut the door firmly behind him. The lights were still burning in the hall, so it was not very late. Hemounted the stairs with a loud step and swung into his room. The lampwas on the table, and within the circle cast by its blue shade a letterwas lying. He took it up with dismay. It was in Kate's handwriting:--

"Forgive me! I am going away. It is all my fault. I have broken theheart of one man, and I am destroying the soul of another. If I stayhere any longer you will be ruined and lost. I am only a millstone aboutyour neck. I see it, I feel it. And yet I have loved you so, and wishedto be so proud of you. Your heart is brave enough, though I have sunk itdown so low. You will live to be strong and good and true, though thatcan never be while I am with you. I have been far below you from thefirst. All along I have only been thinking how much I loved you, but youhave had so many other things to consider. My life seems to have beenone long battle for love. I think it has been a cruel battle too. Anyway, I am beaten, and oh! so tired. 

"Do not follow me. I pray of you do not try to find me. It is my lastrequest. Think of me as on a long journey. I may be--the Great God ofheaven knows. 

"I am taking the little cracked medallion from the bottom of the oakbox. It is the only picture I can find, and it will remind me of someone else as well--my little Katherine, my motherless baby. 

"I have nothing to leave with you but this (_it was a lock of herhair_). At first I thought of the wedding-ring that you gave me when Icame here, but it would not come off, and besides, I could not part withit. 

"Good-bye! I ought to have done this long ago. But you will not hate menow? We could never be happy together again. Good-bye!"

PART VI. MAN AND GOD. 

I. 

The summer had gone, the gorse had dried up, the herring-fishing hadended, and Pete had become poor. His Nickey had done nothing, his lasthundred pounds had been spent, and his creditors in scores, quiet asmice until then, were baying about him like bloodhounds. He sold hisboat and satisfied everybody, but fell, nevertheless, to the position ofa person of no credit and little consequence. On the lips of the peoplehe descended from "Capt'n Pete" to Peter Bridget. When he saluted therich with "How do!" they replied with a stare, a lift of the chin, and"You've the odds of me, my good man. " To this he replied, with a roll ofthe head and a peal of laughter, "Have I now? But you'll die for all. "

Ballajora Chapel had been three months rehearsing a children's cantataentitled "Under the Palms, " and building an arbour of palm branches ona platform for Pete's rugged form to figure in; but Cæsar sat thereinstead. 

Still, Pete had his six thousand pounds in mortgage on Ballawhaine. Only three other persons knew anything of that--Cæsar, who had his ownreasons for saying nothing; Peter Christian himself, who was hardlylikely to tell; and the High Bailiff, who was a bachelor and a miser, and kept all business revelations as sacred as are the secrets ofanother kind of confessional. When Pete's evil day came and the worldshowed no pity, Cæsar became afraid. 

"I wouldn't sell out, sir, " said he. "Hould on till Martinmas, anyway. The first half year's interest is due then. There's no knowing what'llhappen before that. What's it saying, 'He shall give His angels chargeconcerning thee. ' The ould man has had a polatic stroke, they're tellingme. Aw, the Lord's mercy endureth for ever. "

Pete began to sell his furniture. He cleared out the parlour as bare asa vault. "Time for it, too, " he said. "I've been wanting the room for aworkshop. "

Martinmas came, and Cæsar returned in high feather. "No interest, " hesaid. "Give him the month's grace, and hould hard till it's over. The Lord will provide. Isn't it written, 'In the world ye shall havetribulation'? Things are doing wonderful, though. Last night going homefrom Ballajora, I saw the corpse-lights coming from the big house toKirk Christ's Churchyard, with the parson psalming in front of them. Theould man's dying---I've seen his soul. To thy name, O Lord, be all theglory. "

Pete sold out a second room, and turned the key on it. "Mortal cosy andsmall this big, ugly mansion is getting, Nancy, " he said. 

The month's grace allowed by the deed of mortgage expired, and Cæsarcame to Elm Cottage rubbing both hands. "Turn him out, neck and crop, sir. Not a penny left to the man, and six thousand goolden pounds paidinto his hands seven months ago. But who's wondering at that? There'sRoss back again, carrying half a ton of his friends over the island, and lashing out the silver like dust. _Your_ silver, sir, _yours_. Andhere's yourself, with the world darkening round you terrible. But nofear of you now. The meek shall inherit the earth. Aw, God is openingHis word more and more, sir, more and more. There's that Black Tom too. He was talking big a piece back, but this morning he was up beforethe High Bailiff for charming and cheating, and was put away for theDempster. Lord keep him from the gallows and hell-fire! Oh, it's arefreshing saison. It was God spaking to me by Providence when I touldyou to put money on that mortgage. What's the Scripture saying, 'Forbrass I bring thee goold'? Turn him out, sir, turn him out. "

"Didn't you tell me that ould Ballawhaine had a polatic stroke?" saidPete. 

"I did; but he's a big man; let him pay his way, " said Cæsar. 

"Samson was a strong man, and Solomon was a wise one, but they couldn'tpay money when they hadn't got it, " said Pete. 

"Let him look to his son then, " said Cæsar". 

"That's just what he's going to do, " said Pete. "I'll let him die in hisbed, God forgive him. "

The winter came, and Pete began to think of buying a Dandie, which beingsmaller than a Nickey, and of yawl rig, he could sail of himself, and soearn a living by fishing the cod. To do this he had a further clearingof furniture, thereby reducing the size of the house to three rooms. Thefeatherbed left his own bedstead, the watch came out of his pocket, andthe walls of the hall-kitchen gaped and yawned in the places where thepictures had been. 

"The bog-bane to the rushy curragh, say I, Nancy, " said Pete. "Not beingused of such grandeur, I was taking it hard. Never could remember towind that watch. And feathers, bless you! Don't I remember the lilmother, with a sickle and a bag, going cutting the long grass on thesteep brews for the cow, and drying a handful for myself for a bed. Sleeping on it? Never slept the like since at all. "

The result of Pete's first week's fishing was twenty cod and agigantic ling. He packed the cod in boxes and sent them by Crow and thesteam-packet to the market in Liverpool. The ling he swung on his backover his oilskin jacket and carried it home, the head at his shoulderand the tail dangling at his legs. 

"There!" he cried, dropping it on the floor, "split it and salt it, andyou've breakfas'es for a month. "

When the remittance came from Liverpool it was a postal order forseven-and-sixpence. 

"Never mind, " said Pete; "we're bating Dan Hommy anyway--the ould muffhas only made seven-and-a-penny. "

The weather was rough, the fishing was bad, the tackle got broken, andPete began to extol plain living. 

"Gough bless me, " he said, "I don't know in the world what's comingto the ould island at all. When I was for a man-servant with Cæsar thefarming boys were ateing potatoes and herrings three times a day. Butnow! butcher's mate every dinner-time, if you plaze. And tay! the girlsmust be having it reg'lar--and taking no shame with them neither. Mysake, I remember when the mother would be whispering, 'Keep an eye onthe road, boy, while I'm brewing myself a cup of tay. ' Truth enough, Nancy. An ounce a week and a pound of sugar, and people wondering at thewoman for that. "

The mountains were taken from the people, and they were no longerallowed "to cut turf for fuel; coals were dear, the winter was cold, andPete began to complain of a loss of appetite. 

"My teeth must be getting bad, Nancy, " he whined. They were white asmilk and faultless as a negro's. "Don't domesticate my food somehow. What's the odds, though I Can't ate suppers at all, and that's someconstilation. Nothing like going to bed hungry, Nancy, if you're wantingto get up with an appetite for breakfast. Then the beautiful drames, woman! Gough bless me, the dinners and the feasts and the bankets you'reateing in your sleep! Now, if you filled your skin like a High Bailiffafore going to bed, ten to one you'd have a buggane riding on yourbreast the night through and drame of dying for a drink of water. Aw, sleep's a reg'lar Radical Good for levelling up, anyway. "

Christmas approached, servants boasted of the Christmas boxes they gotfrom their masters, and Pete remembered Nancy. 

"Nancy, " said he, "they're telling me Liza Billy-ny-Clae is gettingtwenty pound per year per annum at her new situation in Douglas. Sheisn't nothing to yourself at cooking. Mustn't let the lil one stand inyour way, woman. She's getting a big girl now, and I'll be taking herout in the Dandie with me and tying her down on the low deck there andgiving her a pig's bladder, and she'll be playing away as nice as nice. See?"

Nancy looked at him, and he dropped his eyes before her. 

"Is it wanting to get done with me, you are, Pete?" she said in aquavering voice. "There's my black--I can sell it for something--it'snever been wore at me since I sat through the sarvice with Grannie theSunday after we got news of Kirry. And I'm not a big eater, Pete--neverwas--you can clear me of that anyway. A bit of bread and cheese for mydinner when you are out at the fishing, and I'm asking no better----"

"Hould your tongue, woman, " cried Pete. "Hould your tongue afore youbreak my heart I've seen my rich days and I've seen my poor days. I'vetried both, and I'm content. "

II. 

Meantime, Philip in Douglas was going from success to success, from rankto rank, from fame to fame. Everything he put his hand to counted to himfor righteousness. When he came to himself after the disappearance ofKate, his heart was a wasted field of volcanic action, with ashes andscoriae of infernal blackness on the surface, but the wholesome soilbeneath. In spite of her injunction, he set himself to look for her. More than love, more than pity, more than remorse prompted and supportedhim. She was necessary to his resurrection, to his new birth. So hescoured every poor quarter of the town, every rookery of old Douglas, and this was set down to an interest in the poor. 

An epidemic broke out on the island, and during the scare that followed, wherein some of the wealthy left their homes for England, and many ofthe poor betook themselves to the mountains, and even certain of thedoctors found refuge in flight, Philip won golden opinions for presenceof mind and personal courage. He organised a system of registration, regulated quarantine, and caused the examination of everybody coming tothe island or leaving it. From day to day he went from house to house, from hospital to hospital, from ward to ward. No dangers terrified him;he seemed to keep his eye on each case. He was only looking for Kate, only assuring himself that she had not fallen victim to the pest, onlymaking certain that she had not come or gone. But the divine madnesswhich seizes upon a crowd when its heart is touched laid hold of theisland at the sight of Philip's activities. He was worshipped, hewas beloved, he was the idol of the poor, almost everybody else wasforgotten in the splendour of his fame; no committee could proceedwithout him; no list was complete until it included his name. 

Philip was ashamed of his glories, but he had no heart to repudiatethem. When the epidemic subsided, he had convinced himself that Katemust be gone, that she must be dead. Gone, therefore, was his only holdon life, and dead was his hope of a moral resurrection. He could donothing without her but go on as he was going. To pretend to a new birthnow would be like a death-bed conversion; it would be like renouncingthe joys of life after they have renounced the renouncer. 

His colleague, the old Deemster, was stricken down by paralysis, and hewas required to attend to both their duties. This made it necessary atfirst that all Deemster's Courts should be held in Castletown, andhence Ramsey saw him rarely. He spent his days in the Court-house of theCastle and his nights at home. His fair hair became prematurely white, and his face grew more than ever like that of a man newly risen from afever. 

"Study, " said the world, and it bowed its head the lower. 

Yet he was seen to be not only a studious man, but a melancholy one. To defeat curiosity, he began to enter a little into the life of theisland, and, as time went on, to engage in some of the social duties ofhis official position. On Christmas Eve he gave a reception at hishouse in Athol Street. He had hardly realised how it would tear at thetenderest fibres of memory. The very rooms that had been Kate's weregiven over to the ladies who were his guests. All afternoon the crushwas great, and the host was the attraction. He was a fascinatingfigure--so young, yet already so high; so silent, yet able to speakso splendidly; and then so handsome with that whitening head, and thatsmile like vanishing sunshine. 

In the midst of the reception, Philip received a letter from Ramsey thatwas like the cry of a bleeding heart:--

"My lil one is ill theyr sayin shes Diein cum to me for gods. Sake. --Peat. "

The snow was beginning to fall as the guests departed. When the last ofthem was gone, the clock on the bureau was striking six, and the nightwas closing in. By eight o'clock Philip was at Elm Cottage. 

III. 

Pete was sitting at the foot of the stairs, unwashed, uncombed, with hisclothes half buttoned and his shoes unlaced. 

"Phil!" he cried, and leaping up he took Philip by both hands and fellto sobbing like a child. 

They went upstairs together. The bedroom was dense with steam, and theforms of two women were floating like figures in a fog. 

"There she is, the bogh, " cried Pete in a pitiful wail. 

The child lay outstretched on Grannie's lap, with no sign ofconsciousness, and hardly any sign of life, except the hollow breathingof bronchitis. 

Philip felt a strange emotion come over him. He sat on the end of thebed and looked down. The little face, with its twitching mouth andpinched nostrils, beating with every breath, was the face of Kate. Thelittle head, with its round forehead and the silvery hair brushed backfrom the temples, was his own head. A mysterious throb surprised him, agreat tenderness, a deep yearning, something new to him, and born asit were in his breast at that instant. He had an impulse, never feltbefore, to go down on his knees where the child lay, to take it in hisarms, to draw it to him, to fondle it, to call it his own, and to pourover it the inarticulate babble of pain and love that was bursting fromhis tongue. But some one was kneeling there already, and in his jealouslonging he realised that his passionate sorrow could have no voice. 

Pete, at Grannie's lap, was stroking the child's arm and her foreheadwith the tenderness of a woman. 

"The bogh millish! Seems aisier now, doesn't she, Grannie? Quieter, anyway? Not coughing so much, is she?"

The doctor came at the moment, and Cæsar entered the room behind himwith a face of funereal resignation. 

"See, " cried Pete; "there's your lil patient, doctor. She's lying asquiet as quiet, and hasn't coughed to spake of for better than an hour. "

"H'm!" said the doctor ominously. He looked at the child, made someinquiries of Grannie, gave certain instructions to Nancy, and thenlifted his head with a sigh. 

"Well, we've done all we can for her, " he said. "If the child livesthrough the night she may get over it. "

The women threw up their hands with "Aw, dear, aw, dear!" Philip gavea low, sharp cry of pain; but Pete, who had been breathing heavily, watching intently, and holding his arms about the little one as if hewould save it from disease and death and heaven itself, now lost himselfin the immensity of his woe. 

"Tut, doctor, what are you saying?" he said. "You were always took for aknowledgable man, doctor; but you're talking nonsense now. Don't you seethe child's only sleeping comfortable? And haven't I told you she hasn'tcoughed anything worth for an hour? Do you think a poor fellow's got nosense at all?"

The doctor was a patient man as well as a wise one--he left the roomwithout a word. But, thinking to pour oil on Pete's wounds, and notminding that his oil was vitriol, Cæsar said--

"If it's the Lord's will, it's His will, sir. The sins of the fathersare visited upon the children--yes, and the mothers, too, God forgivethem. "

At that Pete leapt to his feet in a flame of wrath. 

"You lie! you lie!" he cried. "God doesn't punish the innocent for theguilty. If He does, He's not a good God but a bad one. Why should thischild be made to suffer and die for the sin of its mother? Aye, or itsfather either? Show me the _man_ that would make it do the like, andI'll smash his head against the wall. Blaspheming, am I? No, but it'syou that's blaspheming. God is good, God is just, God is in heaven, andyou are making Him out no God at all, but worse than the blackest devilthat's in hell. "

Cæsar went off in horror of Pete's profanities. "If the Lord keep notthe city, " he said, "the watchman waketh in vain. "

Pete's loud voice had aroused the child. It made a little cry, andhe was all softness in an instant. The women moistened its lips withbarley-water, and hushed its fretful whimper. 

"Come, " said Philip, taking Pete's arm. 

"Let me lean on you, Philip, " said Pete, and the stalwart fellow wenttottering down the stairs. 

They sat on opposite sides of the fireplace, and kept the staircase dooropen that they might hear all that happened in the room above. 

"Get thee to bed, Nancy, " said the voice of Grannie. "Dear knows howsoon you'll be wanted. "

"You'll be calling me for twelve, then, Grannie--now, mind, you'll becalling me. "

"Poor Pete! He's not so far wrong, though. What's it saying? 'Suffer lilchilders'----"

"But Cæsar's right enough this time, Grannie. The bogh is took for deathas sure as sure. I saw the crow that was at the wedding going crossingthe child's head the very last time she was out of doors. " Pete waslistening intently. Philip was gazing passively into the fire. 

"I couldn't help it, sir--I couldn't really, " whispered Pete across thehearth. "When a man's got a child that's ill, they may talk about savingsouls, but what's the constilation in that? It's not the soul he'swanting saving at all, it's the child--now, isn't it, now?"

Philip made some confused response. 

"Coorse, I can't expect you to understand that, Philip. You're a grandman, and a clever man, and a feeling man, but I can't expect you tounderstand that--now, is it likely? The greenest gall's egg of a fatherthat isn't half wise has the pull of you there, Phil. 'Deed he has, though. When a man has a child of his own he's knowing what it manes, the Lord help him. Something calls to him--it's like blood callingto blood--it's like. . . I don't know that I'm understanding it myself, neither--not to say _understand_ exactly. "

Every word that Pete spoke was like a sword turning both ways. Philipdrew his breath heavily. 

"You can feel for another, Phil--the Lord forbid you should ever feelfor yourself. Books are _your_ children, and they're best off that'snever having no better. But the lil ones--God help them--to seethem fail, and suffer, and sink--and you not able to do nothing--andthemselves calling to you--calling still--calling reg'lar--calling outof mercy--the way I am telling of, any way--O God! O God!"

Philip's throat rose. He felt as if he must betray himself the nextinstant. 

"Perhaps the doctor was right for all. Maybe the child isn't willingto stay with us now the mother is gone; maybe it's wanting away, poorthing. And who knows? Wouldn't trust but the mother is waiting for thelil bogh yonder--waiting and waiting on the shore there, and 'ticing and'ticing---I've heard of the like, anyway. "

Philip groaned. His brain reeled; his legs grew cold as stones. A greatawe came over him. It was not Pete alone that he was encountering. In these searchings and rendings of the heart, which uncovered everythought and tore open every wound, he was entering the lists with Godhimself. 

The church bell began to ring. 

"What's that?" cried Philip. It had struck upon his ear like a knell. 

"_Oiel Verree_, " said Pete. The bell was ringing for the old Manxservice for the singing of Christmas carols. The fibres of Pete's memorywere touched by it. He told of his Christmases abroad--how it was summerinstead of winter, and fruits were on the trees instead of snow on theground--how people who had never spoken to him before would shake handsand wish him a merry Christmas. Then from sheer weariness and a senseof utter desolation, broken by the comfort of Philip's company, he fellasleep in his chair. 

The night wore on; the house was quiet; only the husky rasping of thechild's hurried breathing came from the floor above. 

An evil thought in the guise of a pious one took possession of Philip. "God is wise, " he told himself. "God is merciful. He knows what is bestfor all of us. What are we poor impotent grasshoppers, that we dare prayto Him to change His great purposes? It is idle. It is impious. . . . Whilethe child lives there will be security for no one. If it dies, therewill be peace and rest and the beginning of content. The mother must begone already, so the dark chapter of our lives will be closed at lastGod is all wise. God is all good. "

The child made a feeble cry, and Philip crept upstairs to look. Granniehad dozed off in her seat, and little Katherine was on the bed. Adisregarded doll lay with inverted head on the counterpane. The firehad slid and died down to a lifeless glow, and the kettle had ceasedto steam. There was no noise in the room save the child's gallopingbreathing, which seemed to scrape the walls as with a file. Sometimesthere was a cough that came like a voice through a fog. 

Philip crept in noiselessly, knelt down by the bed-head, and leaned overthe pillow. A candle which burned on the mantelpiece cast its light onthe head that lay there. The little face was drawn, the little pinchednostrils were beating like a pulse, the little lip beneath was beadedwith perspiration, the beautiful round forehead was damp, and the silkensilvery hair was matted. 

Philip thought the child must be dying, and his ugly piety gave way. There was a movement on the bed. One little hand that had been clenchedhard on the breast came over the counterpane and fell, outstretched andopen before him. He took it for an appeal, a dumb and piteous appeal, and the smothered tenderness of the father's heart came uppermost. _Her_child, his child, dying, and he there, yet not daring to claim her!

A new fear took hold of him. He had been wrong--there could be nosecurity in the child's death, no peace, no rest, no content. As surelyas the child died he would betray himself. He would blurt it all out; hewould tell everything. "My child! my darling! my Kate's Kate!" The crywould burst from him. He could not help it. And to reveal the blacksecret at the mouth of an open grave would be terrible, it would behorrible, it would be awful, "Spare her, O Lord, spare her!"

In a fear bordering on delirium he went downstairs and shook Pete by theshoulders to awaken him. "Come quickly, " he said. 

Pete opened his eyes with a bewildered look» "She's better, isn't she?"he asked. 

"Courage, " said Philip. 

"Is she worse?"

"It's life or death now. We must try something that I saw when I wasaway. "

"Good Lord, and I've been sleeping! Save her, Philip! You're great; yourclever----"

"Be quiet, for God's sake, my good fellow! Quick, a kettle of boilingwater--a blanket--some hot towels. "

"Oh, you're a friend, you'll save her. The doctors don't know nothing. "

Ten minutes afterwards the child made a feeble cry, coughed loosely, threw up phlegm, and came out of the drowsy land which it had inhabitedfor a week. In ten minutes more it was wrapped in the hot towels andsitting on Pete's knee before a brisk are, opening its little eyes andpursing its little mouth, and making some inarticulate communication. 

Then Grannie awoke with a start, and reproached herself for sleeping. "But dear heart alive, " she cried, with both hands up, "the bogh villishis mended wonderful. "

Nancy came back in her stockings, blinking and yawning. She clapped andcrowed at sight of the child's altered face. The clock in the kitchenwas striking twelve by this time, the bells had begun to ring again, thecarol singers were coming out of the church, there was a sound on thelight snow of the street like the running of a shallow river, and thewaits were being sung for the dawn of another Christmas. 

The doctor looked in on his way home, and congratulated himself on theimproved condition. The crisis was passed, the child was safe. 

"Ah! better, better, " he said cheerily. "I thought we might manage itthis time. "

"It was the Dempster that done it, " cried Pete. He was cooing andblowing at little Katherine over the fringe of her towels. "He couldn'thave done more for the lil one if she'd been his own flesh and blood. "

Philip dared not speak. He hurried away in a storm of emotion. "Notyet, " he thought, "not yet. " The time of his discovery was not yet. Itwas like Death, though--it waited for him somewhere. Somewhere and atsome time--some day in the year, some place on the earth. Perhaps hiseyes knew the date in the calendar, perhaps his feet knew the spot onthe land, yet he knew neither. Somewhere and at some time--God knewwhere--God knew when--He kept his own secrets. 

That night Philip slept at the "Mitre, " and next morning he went up toBallure. 

IV. 

The Governor could not forget Tynwald. Exaggerating the humiliation ofthat day, he thought his influence in the island was gone. He sold hishorses and carriages, and otherwise behaved like a man who expected tobe recalled. 

Towards Philip he showed no malice. It was not merely as the author ofhis shame that Philip had disappointed him. 

He had half cherished a hope that Philip would become his son-in-law. But when the rod in his hand had failed him, when it proved too bigfor a staff and too rough for a crutch, he did not attempt to break it. Either from the instinct of a gentleman, or the pride of a strong man, he continued to shower his favours upon Philip. Going to London with hiswife and daughter at the beginning of the new year, he appointed Philipto act as his deputy. 

Philip did not abuse his powers. As grandson of the one great Manxmanof his century, and himself a man of talents, he was readily accepted bythe island. His only drawback was his settled melancholy. This added tohis interest if it took from his popularity. The ladies began to whisperthat he had fallen in love, and that his heart was "buried in thegrave. " He did not forget old comrades. It was remembered, in hisfavour, that one of his friends was a fisherman, a cousin across the barof bastardy, who had been a fool and gone through his fortune. 

On St. Bridget's Day Philip held Deemster's Court in Ramsey. The snowhad gone and the earth had the smell of violets. It was almost as if theviolets themselves lay close beneath the soil, and their odour had beentoo long kept under. The sun, which had not been seen for weeks, hadburst out that day; the air was warm, and the sky was blue. Inside theCourt-house the upper arcs of the windows had been let down; the sunshone on the Deemster as he sat on the dais, and the spring breezeplayed with his silvery wig. Some^ times, in the pauses of raspingvoices, the birds were heard to sing from the trees on the lawn outside. 

The trial was a tedious and protracted one. It was the trial of BlackTom. During the epidemic that had visited the island he had developedthe character of a witch doctor. His first appearance in Court had beenbefore the High Bailiff, who had committed him to prison. He had beenbailed out by Pete, and had forfeited his bail in an attempt at flight. The witnesses were now many, and some came from a long distance. It wasdesirable to conclude the same day. At five in the evening the Deemsterrose and said, "The Court will adjourn for an hour, gentlemen. "

Philip took his own refreshments in the Deemster's room--Jem-y-Lordwas with him--then put off his wig and gown, and slipped through theprisoners' yard at the back and round the corner to Elm Cottage. 

It was now quite dark. The house was lit by the firelight only, whichflashed like Will-o'-the-wisp on the hall window. Philip was surprisedby unusual sounds. There was laughter within, then singing, and thenlaughter again. He bad reached the porch and his approach had not beenheard. The door stood open and he looked in and listened. 

The room was barer than he had ever seen it--a table, three chairs, acradle, a dresser, and a corner cupboard. Nancy sat by the fire with thechild on her lap. Pete was squatting on the floor, which was strewn withrushes, and singing--

 "Come, Bridget, Saint Bridget, come in at my door, The crock's on the bink, and the rush is on the floor. "

Then getting on to all fours like a great boy, and bobbing his head upand down and making deep growls to imitate the terrors of a wild beast, he made little runs and plunges at the child, who jumped and crowed inNancy's lap and laughed and squealed till she "kinked. "

"Now, stop, you great omathaun, stop, " said Nancy. "It isn't good forthe lil one--'deed it isn't. "

But Pete was too greedy of the child's joy to deny himself the delightof it. Making a great low sweep of the room, he came back hopping onhis haunches and barking like a dog. Then the child laughed till thelaughter rolled like a marble in her little throat. 

Philip's own throat rose at the sight, and his breast began to ache. Hefelt the same thrill as before--the same, yet different, more painful, more full of jealous longing. This was no place for him. He thought hewould go away. But turning on his heel, he was seen by Pete, who was nowon his back on the floor, rocking the child up and down like the bellowsof an accordion, and to and fro like the sleigh of a loom. 

"My faith, the Dempster! Come in, sir, come in, " cried Pete, lookingover his forehead. Then, giving the child back to Nancy, he leapt to hisfeet. 

Philip entered with a sick yearning and sat down in the chair facingNancy. 

"You're wondering at me, Dempster, I know you are, sir, " Said Pete, "'Deed, but I'm wondering at myself as well. I thought I was never goingto see a glad day again, and if the sky would ever be blue I would bebreaking my heart. But what is the Manx poet saying, sir? 'I have nowill but Thine, O God. ' That's me, sir, truth enough, and since the lilone has been mending I've never been so happy in my life. "

Philip muttered some commonplace, and put his thumb into the baby'shand. It was sucked in by the little fingers as by the soft feelers ofthe sea-anemone. 

Pete drew up the third chair, and then all interest was centred on thechild. "She's growing, " said Philip huskily. 

"And getting wise ter'ble, " said Pete. "You wouldn't be-lave it, sir, but that child's got the head of an almanac. She has, though. Listenhere, sir--what does the cow say, darling?"

"Moo-o, " said the little one. 

"Look at that now!" said Pete rapturously. 

"She knows what the dog says too, " said Nancy. "What does Dempstersay, bogh?"

"Bow-wow, " said the child. 

"Bless me soul!" said Pete, turning to Philip with amazement at thechild's supernatural wisdom. "And there's Tom Hommy's boy--and a finelil fellow enough for all--but six weeks older than this one, and not aword out of him yet. "

Hearing himself talked of, the dog had come from under the table. Thechild gurgled down at it, then made purring noises at its own feet, andwriggled in Nancy's lap. 

"Dear heart alive, if it's not like nursing an eel, " said Nancy. "Bequiet, will you?" and the little one was shaken back to her seat. 

"Aisy all, woman, " said Pete. "She's just wanting her lil shoesand stockings off, that's it. " Then talking to the child. "Um--am-im--lum--la--loo? Just so! I don't know what that meansmyself, but she does, you see. Aw, the child is taiching me heaps, sir. Listening to the lil one I'm remembering things. Well, we're only bigchildren, the best of us. That's the way the world's keeping young, andGod help it when we're getting so clever there's no child left in us atall. "

"Time for young women to be in bed, though, " said Nancy, getting up togive the baby her bath. 

"Let me have a hould of the rogue first, " said Pete, and as Nancy tookthe child out of the room, he dragged at it and smothered its open mouthwith kisses. 

"Poor sport for you, sir, watching a foolish ould father playing gameswith his lil one, " said Pete. 

Philip's answer was broken and confused. His eyes had begun to fill, andto hide them he turned his head aside. Thinking he was looking at theempty places about the walls, Pete began to enlarge on his prosperity, and to talk as if he were driving all the trade of the island beforehim. 

"Wonderful fishing now, Phil. I'm exporting a power of cod. Grettingpostal orders and stamps, and I don't know what. Seven-and-sixpence in asingle post from Liverpool--that's nothing, sir, nothing at all. "

Nancy brought back the child, whose silvery curls were now damp. 

"What! a young lady coming in her night-dress!" cried Pete. 

"Work enough! had to get it over her head, too, " said Nancy. "Shewouldn't, no, she wouldn't. Here, take and dry her hair by the firewhile I warm up her supper. "

Pete rolled the sleeves of his jersey above his elbows, took the childon his knee, and rubbed her hair between his hands, singing--

 "Come, Bridget, Saint Bridget, come in at my door. "

Nancy clattered about in her clogs, filled a saucepan with bread andmilk, and brought it to the fire. 

"Give it to me, Nancy, " said Philip, and he leaned over and held thesaucepan above the bar. The child watched him intently. 

"Well, did you ever?" said Pete. "The strange she's making of you, Philip? Don't you know the gentleman, darling? Aw, but he's knowing you, though. "

The saucepan boiled, and Philip handed it back to Nancy. 

"Go to him then--away with you, " said Pete. "Gro to your godfather. He'dhave been your name-father too if it had been a boy you'd been. Off yougo!" and he stretched out his hairy arms until the child touched thefloor. 

Philip stooped to take the little one, who first pranced and beat therushes with its feet as with two drumsticks, then trod on its ownlegs, swirled about to Pete's arms, dropped its lower lip, and set up aterrified outcry. 

"Ah! she knows her own father, bless her, " cried Pete, plucking thechild back to his breast. 

Philip dropped his head and laughed. A sort of creeping fear had takenpossession of him, as if he felt remotely that the child was to be thechannel of his retribution. 

"Will you feed her yourself, Pete?" said Nancy. She was coming up witha saucer, of which she was tasting the contents. "He's that handy witha child, sir, you wouldn't think 'Deed you wouldn't. " Then, stooping tothe baby as it ate its supper, "But I'm saying, young woman, is there nosleep in your eyes to-night?"

"No, but nodding away here like a wood-thrush in a tree, " said Pete. Hewas ladling the pobs into the child's mouth, and scooping the overflowfrom her chin. "Sleep's a terrible enemy of this one, sir. She's havinga battle with it every night of life, anyway. God help her, she'll haveluck better than some of us, or she'll be fighting it the other wayabout one of these days. "

"She's us'ally going off with the spoon in her mouth, sir, for all theworld like a lil cherub, " said Nancy. 

"Too busy looking at her godfather to-night, though, " said Pete. "Well, look at him. You owe him your life, you lil sandpiper. And, my sakes, the straight like him you are, too!"

"Isn't she?" said Nancy. "If I wasn't thinking the same myself! Couldn'tlook straighter like him if she'd been his born child; now, could she?And the curls, too, and the eyes! Well, well!"

"If she'd been a boy, now----" began Pete. 

But Philip had risen to return to the Court-house, and Pete said inanother tone, "Hould hard a minute, sir--I've something to show you. Here, take the lil one, Nancy. "

Pete lit a candle and led the way into the parlour. The room was emptyof furniture; but at one end there was a stool, a stone mason's mallet, a few chisels, and a large stone. 

The stone was a gravestone. 

Pete approached it solemnly, held up the candle in front of it, and saidin a low voice, "It's for her. I've been doing it myself, sir, and it'slasted me all winter, dark nights and bad days. I'll be finishing itto-night, though, God willing, and to-morrow, maybe, I'll be taking itto Douglas. "

"Is it----" began Philip, but he could not finish. 

The stone was a plain slab, rounded at the top, bevelled about the edge, smoothed on the face, and chiselled over the back; but there was no signor symbol on it, and no lettering or inscription. 

"Is there to be no name?" asked Philip at last. 

"No, " said Pete. 

"No?"

"Tell you the truth, sir, I've been reading what it's saying in the ouldBook about the Recording Angel calling the dead out of their graves. "

"Yes?"

"And I've been thinking the way he'll be doing it will be going to thegraveyards and seeing the names on the gravestones, and calling them outloud to rise up to judgment; some, as it's saying, to life eternal, andsome to everlasting punishment. "

"Well?"

"Well, sir, I've been thinking if he comes to this one and sees no nameon it"--Pete's voice sank to a whisper--"maybe he'll pass it by and letthe poor sinner sleep on. "

Stumbling back to the Court-house through the dark lane Philip thought, "It was a lie _then_, but it's true _now_. It _must_ be true. She mustbe dead. " There was a sort of relief in this certainty. It was an end, at all events; a pitiful end, a cowardly end, a kind of sneaking out ofFate's fingers; it was not what he had looked for and intended, but hestruggled to reconcile himself to it. 

Then he remembered the child and thought, "Why should I disturb it? Whyshould I disturb Pete? I will watch over it all its life. I will protectit and find a way to provide for it. I will do my duty by it. The childshall never want. "

He was offering the key to the lock of the prisoners' yard when someone passed him in the lane, peered into his face, then turned about andspoke. 

"Oh, it's you, Deemster Christian?"

"Yes, doctor. Good-night!"

"Have you heard the news from Ballawhaine? The old gentleman had anotherstroke this morning. "

"No, I had not heard it. Another? Dear me, dear me!"

Back in his room, Philip resumed his wig and gown and returned tothe Court-house. The place was now lit up by candlelight and denselycrowded. Everybody rose to his feet as the Deemster stepped to the dais. 

V. 

 "Come, Bridget, Saint Bridget, come in at my door, The crock's on the bink and the rush----"

"She's fast, " said Nancy. "Rocking this one to sleep is like waiting forthe kettle to boil. You may try and try, and blow and blow, but never asound. And no sooner have you forgotten all about her, but she's singingaway as steady as a top. "

Nancy put the child into the cradle, tucked her about, twisted the headof the little nest so that the warmth of the fire should enter it, andhung a shawl over the hood to protect the little eyelids from the light. "Will you keep the house till I'm home from Sulby, Pete?"

"I've my work, woman, " said Pete from the parlour. 

"I'll put a junk on the fire and be off then, " said Nancy. 

She pulled the door on to the catch behind her and went crunching thegravel to the gate. There was no sound in the house now but thegentle breathing of the sleeping child, soft as an angel's prayer, thechirruping of the mended fire like a cage of birds, the ticking of theclock, and, through the parlour wall, the dull pat-put, pat-put of thewooden mallet and the scrape of the chisel on the stone. 

Pete worked steadily for half an hour, and then came back to thehall-kitchen with his tools in his hands. The cob of coal had kindled toa lively flame, which flashed and went out, and the quick black shadowsof the chairs and the table and the jugs on the dresser were leapingabout the room like elves. With parted lips, just breaking into a smile, Pete went down on one knee by the cradle, put the mallet under his arm, and gently raised the shawl curtain. "God bless my motherless girl, "he said, in a voice no louder than a breath. Suddenly, while he kneltthere, he was smitten as by an electric shock. His face straightened andhe drew back, still holding the shawl at the tips of his fingers. 

The child was sleeping peacefully, with one of its little arms over thecounterpane. On its face the flickering light of the fire was comingand going, making lines about the baby eyes and throwing up the babyfeatures. It is in such lights that we are startled by resemblances in achild's face. Pete was startled by a resemblance. He had seen it before, but not as he saw it now. 

A moment afterwards he was reaching across the cradle again, his armsspread over it, and his face close down at the child's face, scanningevery line of it as one scans a map. "'Deed, but she is, though, " hemurmured. "She's like him enough, anyway. "

An awful idea had taken possession of his mind. He rose stiffly to hisfeet, and the shawl flapped back. The room seemed to be darkening roundhim. He broke the coal, though it was burning brightly, stepped to theother side of the cradle, and looked at the child again. It was the samefrom there. The resemblance was ghostly. 

He felt something growing hard inside of him, and he returned tohis work in the parlour. But the chisel slipped, the mallet fell tooheavily, and he stopped. His mind fluctuated among distant things. Hecould not help thinking of Port Mooar, of the Carasdhoo men, of the daywhen he and Philip were brought home in the early, morning. 

Putting his tools down, he returned to the room. He was holding hisbreath and walking softly, as if in the presence of an invisible thing. The room was perfectly quiet--he could hear the breath in his nostrils. In a state of stupor he stood for some time with bis back to the fireand watched his shadow on the opposite wall and on the ceiling. Thecradle was at his feet. He could not keep his eyes off it. From time totime he looked down across one of his shoulders. 

With head thrown back and lips apart, the child was breathing calmly andsleeping the innocent sleep. This angel innocence reproached him. 

"My heart must be going bad, " he muttered. "Your bad thoughts areblackening the dead. For shame, Pete Quilliam, for shame!"

He was feeling like a man who is in a storm of thunder and lightning atnight. Familiar things about him looked strange and awful. 

Stooping to the cradle again, he turned back the shawl on to thecradle-head as a girl turns back the shade of her sun-bonnet Then thefirelight was full on the child's face, and it moved in its sleep. Itmoved yet more under his steadfast gaze, and cried a little, as if theterrible thought that was in his mind had penetrated to its own. 

He was stooping so when the door was opened and Cæsar entered violently, making asthmatic noises in his throat. Pete looked up at him with astupefied air. "Peter, " he said, "will you sell that mortgage?"

Pete answered with a growl. 

"Will you transfer it to me?" said Cæsar. 

"The time's not come, " said Pete. 

"What time?"

"The time foretold by the prophet, when the lion can lie down with thelamb. "

Pete laughed bitterly. Cæsar was quivering, his mouth was twitching, andhis eyes were wild. "Will you come over to the 'Mitre, ' then?"

"What for to the 'Mitre'?"

"Ross Christian is there. "

Pete made an impatient gesture. "That stormy petrel again! He's alwaysabout when there's bad weather going. "

"Will you come and hear what the man's saying?"

"What's he saying?"

"Will you hear for yourself?"

Pete looked hard at Cæsar, looked again, then caught up his cap and wentout at the door. 

VI. 

With two of his cronies the man had spent the day in a room overlookingthe harbour, drinking hard and playing billiards. Early in the afternoona messenger had come from Ballawhaine, saying, "Your father is ill--comehome immediately. " "By-and-bye, " he had said, and gone on with the game. 

Later in the afternoon the messenger had come again, saying, "Yourfather has had a stroke of paralysis, and he is calling for you. " "Letme finish the break first, " he had replied. 

In the evening the messenger had come a third time, saying, "Your fatheris unconscious. " "Where's the hurry, then?" he had answered, and he sanga stave of the "Miller's Daughter"--

 "They married me against my will, When I was daughter at the mill. "

Finally, Cæsar, who had been remonstrating with the Ballawhaine at themoment of his attack, came to remonstrate with Ross, and to pay off ascore of his own as well. 

"Honour thy father and thy mother, that thy days----" cried Cæsar, withuplifted arm and the high pitch of the preacher. "But your days will notbe long, anyway, and, if you are the death of that foolish ould man, itwon't be the first death you're answerable for. "

"So you believe it, too?" said Ross, cue in hand. "You believe yourdaughter is dead, do you, old Jephthah Jeremiah? Would you be surprisedto hear, now----" (the cronies giggled) "that she isn't dead atall?----Good shotr-cannon off the cushion. Halloa! Jephthah Jeremiahhas seen a ghost seemingly. Saw her myself, man, when I was up in towna month ago. Want to know where she is? Shall I tell you? Oh, you'rea beauty! You're a pattern! You know how to train up a child in theway----Pocket off the red----It's you to preach at my father, isn'tit? She's on the streets of London--ah, Jeremiah's gone----

 'They married me against my will '--

There you are, then--good shot--love--twenty-five and nothing left. "

Pete pushed through to the billiard-room. Fearing there might beviolence, hoping there would be, yet thinking it scarcely proper to lendthe scene of it the light of his countenance, Cæsar had stayed outside. 

"Halloa! here's Uriah!" cried Ross. "Talk of the devil--just thoughtas much. Ever read the story of David and Uriah? Should, though. Doyou good, mister. David was a great man. Aw" (with a mock imitation ofPete's Manx), "a ter'ble, wonderful, shocking great man. Uriah was hishenchman. Ter'ble clavar, too, but that green for all, the ould cowmight have ate him. And Uriah had a nice lil wife. The nice now, youwouldn't think. But when Uriah was away David took her, and then--andthen" (dropping the Manx) "it doesn't just run on Bible lines neither, but David told Uriah that his wife was dead--ha! ha! ha!----

 'Who saw her diet I said the fly, I saw her----'

Stop that--let go--help----You'll choke me--help! help!"

At two strides Pete had come face to face with Ross, put one of hishands at the man's throat and his leg behind him, doubled him back onhis knee, and was holding him there in a grip like that of a vice. 

"Help!--help!--oo--ugh!" The fellow gasped, and his face grew dark. 

"You're not worth it, " said Pete. "I meant to choke the life out ofyour dirty body for lying about the living and blackening the dead, butyou're not worth hanging for. You've got the same blood in you, too, andI'm ashamed for you. There! get up. "

With a gesture of indescribable loathing, Pete flung the man to theground, and he fell over his cue and broke it. 

The people of the house came thronging into the room, and met Pete goingout of it. His face was hard and ugly. At first sight they mistook himfor Ross, so disfigured was he by bad passions. 

Cæsar was tramping the pavement outside. "Will you let me do it now?" hesaid in a hot whisper. 

"Do as you like, " said Pete savagely. 

"The wicked is snared in the work of his own hand. Higgaion. Selah, "said Cæsar, and they parted by the entrance to the Court-house. 

Pete went home, muttering to himself, "The man was lying--she's dead, she's dead!"

At the gate of Elm Cottage the dog came up to him, barking with glee. Then it darted back to the house door, which stood open. "Some onehas come, " thought Pete. "She's dead. The man lied. She's dead, " hemuttered, and he stumbled down the path. 

VII. 

While the Deemster was stepping up to the dais, and the people in thecourt were rising to receive him, a poor bedraggled wayfarer was toilingthrough the country towards the town. It was a woman. She must havewalked far, her step was so slow and so heavy. From time to time sherested, not sitting, but standing by the gates of the fields as she cameto them, and holding by the topmost bar. 

When she emerged from the dark lanes into the lamplit streets her pacequickened for a moment; then it slackened, and then it quickened again. She walked close to the houses, as if trying to escape observation. Where there was a short cut through an ill-lighted thoroughfare, shetook it. Any one following her would have seen that she was familiarwith every corner of the town. 

It would be hard to imagine a woman of more miserable appearance. Notthat her clothes were so mean, though they were poor and worn, but thatan air of humiliation sat upon her, such as a dog has when it is lostand the children are chasing it. Her dress was that of an old woman--thelong Manx cloak of blue homespun, fastened by a great hook close underthe chin, and having a hood which is drawn over the head. But in spiteof this old-fashioned garment, and the uncertainty of her step, shegave the impression of a young woman. Where the white frill of the oldcountrywoman's cap should have shown itself under the flange of thehood, there was a veil, which seemed to be suspended from a hat. 

The oddity and incongruity of her attire attracted attention. Women cameout of their houses and crossed to the doors of neighbours to look afterher. Even the boys playing at the corners looked up as she went by. 

She was not greatly observed for all that. An unusual interest agitatedthe town. A wave of commotion flowed down the streets. The traffic wentin one direction. That direction was the Court-house. 

The Court-house square was thronged on three of its sides by people whowere gathered both on the pavement and on the green inside the railings. Its fourth side was the dark lane at the back going by the door to theprisoners' yard and the Deemster's entrance. The windows were lit up andpartly open. Some of the people had edged to the walls as if to listen, and a few had clambered to the sills as if to see. Around the widedoorway there was a close crowd that seemed to cling to it like a burr. 

The woman had reached the first angle of the square when the upper halfof the Court-house door broke into light over the heads of the crowd. Aman had come out. He surged through the crowd and "came down to the gatewith a tail of people trailing after him and asking questions. 

"Wonderful!" he was saying. "The Dempster's spaking. Aw, a Daniel cometo judgment, sir. Pity for Tom, though--the man'll get time. I'm sorryfor an ould friend--but the Lord's will be done! Let not the ties ofaffection be a snare to our feet--it'll be five years if it's a day, and(D. V. ) he'll never live to see the end of it. "

It was Cæsar. He crossed the street to the "Mitre. " The woman trembledand turned towards the lane at the back. She walked quicker than evernow. But, stumbling over the irregular cobbles of the paved way, shestopped suddenly at the sound of a voice. By this time she was at thedoor to the prisoners' yard, and it was standing open. The door of thecorridor leading by the Deemster's chamber to the Court-house was alsoajar, as if it had been opened to relieve the heat of the crowded roomwithin. 

"Be just and fear not, " said the voice. "Remember, whatever unconsciousmisrepresentations have been made this day, whatever deliberatefalse-swearing (and God and the consciences of the guilty ones know wellthere have been both), truth is mighty, and in the end it will prevail. "

The poor bedraggled wayfarer stood in the darkness and trembled. Herhands clutched at the breast of the cloak, her head dropped into herbreast, and a half-smothered moan escaped from her. She knew the voice;it had once been very sweet and dear to her; she had heard it at her earin tones of love. It was the voice of the Deemster. He was speaking fromthe judge's seat; the people were hanging on his lips. 

And he was standing in the shadow of the dark lane under the prisoners'wall. 

The woman was Kate. It was true that she had been to London; it wasfalse that she had lived a life of shame there. In six months she haddescended to the depths of poverty and privations. One day she hadencountered Ross. He was fresh from the Isle of Man, and he told her ofthe child's illness. The same night she turned her face towards home. Itwas three weeks since she had returned to the island, and she was thenlow in health, in heart, and in pocket. The snow was falling. It was abitter night. Growing dizzy with the drifting whiteness and numb withthe piercing cold, she had crept up to a lonely house and asked shelteruntil the storm should cease. 

The house was the home of three old people, two old brothers and an oldsister, who had always lived together. In this household Kate had spentthree weeks of sickness, and the Manx cloak on her back was a partinggift which the old woman had hung over her thinly-clad shoulders. 

Back in the roads Kate had time to tell herself how foolish was herjourney. She was like a sailor who has alarming news of home in someforeign port and hears nothing afterwards until he comes to harbour. Àmonth had passed. So many things might have happened. The child might bebetter; it might be dead and buried. Nevertheless she pushed on. 

When she left London she had been full of bitterness towards Philip. Itwas his fault that she had ever been parted from her baby. She would goback. If she brought shame upon him, let him bear it. On coming nearto home this feeling of vengeance died. Nothing was left but a greatlonging to be with her little one and a sense of her own degradation. Every face she recognised seemed to remind her of the change that hadbeen wrought in herself since she had looked on it last. She dare notask; she dare not speak; she dare not reveal herself. 

While she stood in the shadow of the prisoners' yard listening toPhilip's voice, and held by it as by a spell, there was a low hiss andthen a sort of white silence, as when a rocket breaks in the air. TheDeemster had finished; the people in the court were breathing audiblyand moving in their seats. 

A minute later she was standing by her old home, hers no longer, andhaunted in her mind by many bitter memories. It was dark and cheerless. A candle had been burning in the parlour, but it was now spluttering inthe fat at the socket. As she looked into the room, it blinked and wentout. 

During the last mile of her journey she had made up her mind what shewould do. She would creep up to the house and listen for the sound of achild's voice. If she heard it, and the voice was that of a child thatwas well, she would be content, she would go away. And if she did nothear it, if the child was gone, if there was no longer any child there, if it was in heaven, she would go away just the same--only God knew how, God knew where. 

The road was quiet. With trembling fingers she raised the latch of thegate, and stepped two paces into the garden. There was no sound fromwithin. She took two steps more and listened intently. Nothing wasaudible. Her heart fell yet lower. She told herself that when a childlived in a house the very air breathed of its presence, and its littlevoice was everywhere. Then she remembered that it was late, that it wasnight, that even if the child were well it would now be bathed and inbed. "How foolish!" she thought, and she took a few steps more. 

She had meant to reach the hall window and look in, butt before shecould do so, something came scudding along the path in her direction. It was the dog, and he was barking furiously. All at once he stopped andbegan to caper about her. Then he broke into barking again, this timewith a note of recognition and delight, shot into the house and cameback, still barking, and making a circle of joyful salutation in thedarkness round her. 

Quaking with fear of instant discovery, she crept under the old tree andwaited. Nobody came from the house. "There's no one at home, " she toldherself, and at that thought the certainty that the child was gone fellon her as an oppression of distress. 

Nevertheless she stepped up to the porch and listened again. There wasno sound within except the ticking of the clock. Making a call on hercourage, she pushed the door open with the tips of her fingers. It madea rustle as the bottom brushed over the rushes. At that she uttereda faint cry and crept back trembling. But all was silence again in aninstant. The fire gave out a strong red glow which spread over the wallsand the ceiling. Her mind took in the impression that the place wasalmost empty, but she had no time for such observations. With slow andstiff motions she slid into the house. 

Then she heard a sleepy whimper and it thrilled her. In an instant shehad seen the thing she looked for--the cradle, with its hood towards thedoor and its foot to the fire. At the next moment she was on her kneesbeside it, doubled over it and crying softly to the baby, looking sodifferent, smelling of milk and of sleep, "My darling! my darling!"

That was the moment when Pete was coming up the path. The dog wasfrisking and barking about him. "She's dead, " he was saying. "The manlied. She's dead. " With that word on his lips he heaved heavily intothe house. As he did so he became aware that some one was there already. Before his eye had carried the news to his brain, his ear had told him. He heard a voice which he knew well, though it seemed to be a memoryof no waking moment, but to come out of the darkness and the hours ofsleep. It was a soft and mellow voice, saying, "My beautiful darling! Mybeautiful, rosy darling I My darling! My darling!"

He saw a woman kneeling by the cradle, with both arms buried in it asthough they encircled the sleeping child. Her hood was thrown back, andher head was bare. The firelight fell on her face, and he knew it. Hepassed his hand across his eyes as if trying to wipe out the apparition, but it remained. He tried to speak, but his tongue was stiff. He stoodmotionless and stared. He could not remove his eyes. 

Kate heard the door thrown open, and she lifted her head in terror. Petewas before her, with a violent expression on his face. The expressionchanged, and he looked at her as if she had been a spirit. Then, in avoice of awe, he said, "Who art thou?"

"Don't you know me?" she answered timidly. 

It seemed as if he did not hear. "Then it's true, " he muttered tohimself; "the man did not lie. "

She felt her knees trembling under her. "I haven't come to stay, " shefaltered. "They told me the child was ill, and I couldn't help coming. "

Still he did not speak to her. As he looked, his face grew awful. Thedew of fear broke out on her forehead. 

"Don't you know me, Pete?" she said in a helpless way. 

Still he stood looking down at her, fixedly, almost threateningly. 

"I am Katherine, " she said, with a downcast look. 

"Katherine is dead, " he answered vacantly. 

"Oh! oh!"

"She is in her grave, " he said again. 

"Oh, that she were in her grave indeed!" said Kate, and she covered herface with her hands. 

"She is dead and buried, and gone from this house for ever, " said Pete. 

He did not intend to cast her off; he was only muttering vague words inthe first spasm of his pain; but she mistook them for commands to her togo. 

There was a moment's silence, and then she uncovered her face and said, "I understand--yes, I will go away. I oughtn't to have come back atall--I know that. But I will go now. I won't trouble you any more. Iwill never come again. "

She kissed the child passionately. It rubbed its little face with theback of its hand, but it did not awake. She pulled the hood on to herhead, and drew the veil over her face. Then she lifted herself feeblyto her feet, stood a moment looking about her, made a faint pathetic cryand slid out at the door. 

When she was gone, Pete, without uttering a word or a sound, stumbledinto a chair before the fire, put one hand on the cradle, and fell torocking it. After some time he looked over his shoulder, like a man whowas coming out of unconsciousness, and said, "Eh?"

The soul has room for only one great emotion at once, and he had begunto say to himself, "She's alive! She's here!" The air of the houseseemed to be soft with her presence. Hush!

He got on to his feet. "Kate!" he called softly, very softly, as if shewere near and had only just crossed the threshold. 

"Kate!" he called again more loudly. 

Then he went out at the porch and floundered along the path, cryingagain and again, in a voice of boundless emotion, "Kate! Kate! Kate!"

But Kate did not hear him. He was tugging at the gate to open it, whensomething seemed to give way inside his head, and a hoarse groan camefrom his throat. 

"She's better dead, " he thought, and then reeled back to the house likea drunken man. 

The fire looked black, as if it had gone out. He sat down in thedarkness, and put his hand into his teeth to keep himself from cryingout. 

VIII. . 

The Deemster in the half-lit Court-house was passing sentence. 

"Prisoner, " he said, "you have been found guilty by a jury of yourcountrymen of one of the cruellest of the crimes of imposture. You havedeceived the ignorant, betrayed the unwary, lied to the simple, androbbed the poor. You have built your life upon a lie, and in your oldage it brings you to confusion. In ruder times than ours youroffence would have worn another complexion; it would have been calledwitchcraft, not imposture, and your doom would have been death. Thesentence of the court is that you be committed to the Castle Rushen forthe term of one year. "

Black Tom, who had stood during the Deemster's sentence with his baldhead bent, wiping his eyes on his sleeve and leaving marks on his face, recovered his self-conceit as he was being hustled out of court. 

"You're right, Dempster, " he cried. "Witchcraft isn't worth nothing now. Religion's the only roguery that's going these days. Your friend Cæsarwas wise, sir. Bes' re-spec's to him, Dempster, and may you live up toyour own tex' yourself, too. "

"If my industry and integrity, " said a solemn voice at the door--"andwhat's it saying in Scripture?--'If any provide not for his own house heis worse than an infidel. ' But the Lord is my shield. What for should Idefend myself? I am a worm and no man, saith the Psalms. "

"The Psalms is about right then, Cæsar, " shouted Black Tom from betweentwo constables. 

In the commotion that followed on the prisoner's noisy removal, theClerk of the Court was heard to speak to the Deemster. There was anothercase just come in--attempted suicide--woman tried to fling herself intothe harbour--been prevented--would his Honour take it now, or let itstand over for the High Bailiff's court. 

"We'll take it now, " said the Deemster. "We may dismiss her in a moment, poor creature. "

The woman was brought in. She was less like a human creature than like aheap of half-drenched clothes. A cloak which looked black with the waterthat soaked it at the hood covered her body and head. Her face seemedto be black also, for a veil which she wore was wet, and clung to herfeatures like a glove. Some of the people in court recognised her figureeven in the uncertain candlelight. She was the woman who had been seento come into the town during the hour of the court's adjournment. 

Half helped, half dragged by constables, she entered the prisoner'sdock. There she clutched the bar before her as if to keep herself fromfalling. Her head was bent down between her shrinking shoulders as ifshe were going through the agony of shame and degradation. 

"The woman shouldn't have been brought here like this--quick, be quick, "said the Deemster. 

The evidence was brief. One of the constables being on duty in themarket-place had heard screams from the quay. On reaching the place, he had found the harbour-master carrying a woman up the quay steps. Mr. Quarry, coming out of the harbour office, had seen a woman go by likethe wind. A moment afterwards he had heard a cry, and had run to thesecond steps. The woman had been caught by a boathook in attempting toget into the water. She was struggling to drown herself. 

The Deemster watched the prisoner intently. "Is anything known abouther?" he asked. 

The clerk answered that she appeared to be a stranger, but she wouldgive no information. Then the sergeant of police stepped up to thedock. In emphatic tones the big little person asked the woman variousquestions. What was her name? No answer. Where did she come from? Noanswer. What was she doing in Ramsey? Still no answer. 

"Your Honour, " said the sergeant, "doubtless this is one of the humanwrecks that come drifting to our shores in the summer season. Thepoorest of them are often unable to get away when the season is over, and so wander over the island, a pest and a burden to every place theyset foot in. "

Then, turning back to the figure crouching in the dock, he said, "Woman, are you a street-walker?"

The woman gave a piteous cry, let go her hold of the bar, sank back tothe seat behind her, brushed up the wet black veil, and covered her facewith her hands. 

"Sit down this instant, Mr. Gawne, " said the Deemster hotly, and therewas a murmur of approval from behind. "We must not keep this woman amoment longer. "

He rose, leaned across to the rail in front, clasped his hands beforehim, looked down at the woman in the dock, and said in a low tone, that would have been barely loud enough to reach her ears but for thesilence, as of a tomb, in the court, "My poor woman, is there anybodywho can answer for you?"

The prisoner stooped her head lower and began to cry. 

"When a woman is so unhappy as to try to take her life, it sometimesoccurs, only too sadly, that another is partly to blame for thecondition that tempts her to the crime. "

The Deemster's voice was as soft as a caress. 

"If there is such a one in this case, we ought to learn it. He ought tostand by your side. It is only right; it is only just. Is there anybodyhere who knows you?"

The prisoner was now crying piteously. 

"Ah! we mean no harm to any one. It is in the nature of woman, howeverlow she may sink, however deep her misfortunes, to shield her dearestenemy. That is the brave impulse of the weakest among women, and allgood men respect it. But the law has its duty, and in this instance itis one of mercy. "

The woman moaned audibly. 

"Don't be afraid, my poor girl. Nobody shall harm you here. Take courageand look around. Is there anybody in court who can speak for you--whocan tell us how you came to the place where you are now standing?"

The woman let fall her hands, raised her head, and looked up at theDeemster, face to face and eye to eye. 

"Yes, " she said, "there is _one_. "

The Deemster's countenance became pale, his eyes glistened, his lookwandered, his lips trembled--he was biting them, they were bleeding. 

"Remove her in custody, " he muttered; "let her be well cared for. "

There was a tumult in a moment. Everybody had recognised the prisoner asshe was being taken out, though shame and privation had so altered her. "Peter Quilliam's wife!"--"Cæsar Cregeen's daughter--where's the manhimself?"--"Then it's truth they're telling--it's not dead she is atall, but worse. "--"Lor-a-massy!"--"What a trouble for the Dempster!"

When Kate was gone, the court ought to have adjourned instantly, yet theDeemster remained in his seat. There was a mist before his eyes whichdazzled him. He had a look at once wild and timid. His limbs painedalthough they were swelling to enormous size. He felt as if a heavy, invisible hand had been laid on the top of his head. 

The clerk caught his eye, and then he rose with an apologetic air, tookhold of the rail, and made an effort to cross the dais. At the nextmoment his servant, Jem-y-Lord, had leapt up to his side, but he made animpatient gesture as if declining help. 

There are three steps going down to the floor of the court, and ahandrail on one side of them. Coming to these steps, he stumbled, muttered some confused words, and fell forward on to his face. Thepeople were on their feet by this time, and there was a rush to theplace. 

"Stand back! He has only fainted, " cried Jem-y-Lord. 

"Worse than that, " said the sergeant. "Get him to bed, and send for Dr. Mylechreest instantly. "

"Where can we take him?" said somebody. 

"They keep a room for him at Elm Cottage, " said somebody else. 

"No, not there, " said Jem-y-Lord. 

"It's nearest, and there's no time to lose, " said the sergeant. 

Then they lifted Philip, and carried him as he lay, in his wig and gownas Deemster, to the house of Pete. 

IX. 

There is a kind of mental shock which, like an earthquake under aprison, bursts open every cell and lets the inmates escape. After atime, Pete remembered that he was sitting in the dark, and he got up tolight a candle. Looking for candlestick and matches, he went from tableto dresser, from dresser to table, and from table back to dresser, doingthe same thing over and over again, and not perceiving that he was goinground and round. When at length the candle was lighted, he took it inhis hand and went into the parlour like a sleepwalker. He set it on themantelpiece, and sat down on the stool. In his blurred vision confusedforms floated about him. "Ah! my tools, " he thought, and picked up themallet and two of the chisels. He was sitting with these in his handswhen his eyes fell on the other candlestick, the one in which the candlehad gone out "I meant to light a candle, " he thought, and he got up andtook the empty candlestick into the hall. When he came back with anotherlighted candle, he perceived that there were two. "I'm going stupid, "he thought, and he blew out the first one. A moment afterwards he forgotthat he had done so, and seeing the second still burning, he blew thatout also. 

So dull were his senses that he did not realise that anything was amiss. His eyes were seeing objects everywhere about--they were growing toawful size and threatening him. His ears were hearing noises--they weremaking a fearful tumult inside his head. 

The room was not entirely dark. A shaft of bleared moonlight came andwent at intervals. The moon was scudding through an angry sky, sometimesappearing, sometimes disappearing. Pete returned to the stool, and thenhe was in the light, but the nameless stone, leaning against the wall, was in the shade. He took up the mallet and chisels again, intending towork. "Hush!" he said as he began. The clamour in his brain was so loudthat he thought some one was making a noise in the house. This task wassacred. He always worked at it in silence. 

_Pat-put! pat-put!_ How long he worked he never knew. There are momentswhich are not to be measured as time. In the uncertain handling of thechisel and the irregular beat of the mallet something gave way. Therewas a harsh sound like a groan. A crack like a flash of forked lightninghad shot across the face of the stone. He had split it in half. Itsgreat pieces fell to the floor on either side of him. Then he rememberedthat the stone had been useless. "It doesn't matter now, " he thought. Nothing mattered. 

With the mallet hanging from his hand he continued to sit in thedrifting moonlight, feeling as if everything in the world had beenshivered to atoms. His two idols had been scattered at one blow--hiswife and his friend. The golden threads that had bound him to life werebroken. When poverty had come, he had met it without repining; whendeath had seemed to come, he had borne up against it bravely. Butwifeless, friendless, deceived where he had loved, betrayed where he hadworshipped, he was bankrupt, he was broken, and a boundless despair tookhold of him. 

When hope is entirely gone, anguish will sometimes turn a man into amonster. There was a fretful cry from the cradle, and, still in thestupor of his despair, he went out to rock it. The fire, which had onlyslid and smouldered, was now struggling into flame, and the child lookedup at him with Philip's eyes. A knife seemed to enter his heart atthat moment. He was more desolate than he had thought. "Hush, my child, hush!" he said, without thinking. _His_ child? He had none. That solacewas gone. 

Anger came to save his reason. Not to have felt anger, he must have beenless than a man or more. He remembered what the child had been to him. He remembered what it was when it came, and again when he thought itsmother was dead; he remembered what it was when death frowned on it, andwhat it had been since death passed it by. Flesh of his flesh, bloodof his blood, bone of his bone, heart of his heart. Not his merely, buthimself. 

A lie, a mockery, a delusion, a deception! _She_ has practised it. Oh, she had hidden her secret. She had thought it was safe. But the childitself had betrayed it. The secret had spoken from the child's own face. 

"Yet I've seen her kneel by the cot and pray, 'God bless my baby, andits father and its mother'-----"

Why had he not killed her? A wild vision rose before him of killingKate, and then going to the Deemster and saying, "Take me; I havemurdered her because you have dishonoured her. Condemn me to death; yetremember God lives, and He will condemn you to damnation. "

But the pity of it--the pity of it! By a quick revolt of tendernesshe recalled Kate as he had just seen her, crouching at the back of thecradle, like a hunted hare with uplifted paws uttering its last pitifulcry. He remembered her altered face, so pale even in the firelight, sothin, so worn, and his anger began to smoke against Philip. The flowerthat he would have been proud to wear on his breast Philip had buried inthe dark. Curse him! Curse him!

She had given up all for that man--husband, child, father, mother, herfriends, her good name, the very light of heaven. How she must haveloved him! Yet he had been ashamed of her, had hidden her away, had beenin fear lest the very air should whisper of her whereabouts. Curse him!Curse him! Curse him!

In the heat of his great anger Pete thought of himself also. Jealousywas far beneath him, but, like all great souls, this simple man hadknown something of the grandeur of friendship. Two streams running intothem and taking heaven into their bosom. But Philip had kept him apart, had banked him off, and yet drained him to the dregs. He had uncoveredhis nakedness--the nakedness of his soul itself. 

Bit by bit Pete pieced together the history of the past months. Heremembered the night of Kate's disappearance, when he had gone toBallure and shouted up at the lighted window, "I've sent her toEngland, " thinking to hide her fault. At that moment Philip had knownall--where she was (for it was where he had sent her), why she was gone, and that she was gone for ever. Curse him! Curse him!

Pete recalled the letters--the first one that he had put into Philip'shand, the second that he had read to him, the third that Philip hadwritten to his dictation. The little forgeries' to keep her poor namesweet, the little inventions to make his story plausible, the littlelies of love, the little jests of a breaking heart! And then themessages! The presents to the child! The reference to the Deemsterhimself! And the Deemster had sat there and seen through it all as thesun sees through glass, yet he had given no sign, he had never spoken;he had held a quivering, naked heart in his hand, while his own laywithin as cold as a stone. Curse him, O God! Curse him!

Pete remembered the night when Philip came to tell him that Kate wasdead, and how he had comforted himself with the thought that he was notaltogether alone in his great trouble, because his friend was with him. He remembered the journey to the grave, the grave itself--another'sgrave-how he knelt at the foot of it, and prayed aloud in Philip'shearing, "Forgive me, my poor girl!"

"How shall I kill him?" thought Pete. Deemster too! First Deemster now, and held high in honour! Worshipped for his justice! Beloved for hismercy! O God! O God!

There are passions so overmastering that they stifle speech, and mansinks back to the animal. With an inarticulate shout Pete went to theparlour and caught up the mallet. A frantic thought had flashed onhim of killing Philip as he sat on the bench which he had disgraced, administering the law which he had outraged. The wild justice of thisidea made the blood to bubble in his ears. He saw himself holding theDeemster by the throat, and crying aloud to the people, "You think thisman is a just judge--he is a whited sepulchre. You think he is as trueas the sun--he is as false as the sea. He has robbed me of wife andchild; at the very gates of heaven he has lied to me like hell. The hourof justice has struck, and thus I pay him--and thus--and thus. "

But the power of words was lost in the drunkenness of his rage. Witha dismal roar he flung the mallet away, and it rolled on the ground innarrowing circles. "My hands, my hands, " he thought. He would stranglePhilip, and then he would kill everybody in his way, merely for the lustof killing. Why not? The fatal line was past. Nothing sacred remained. The world was a howling wilderness of boundless license. With the savagegrowl of a caged beast this wild man flung himself on the door, tore itopen, and bounded on to the path. 

Then he stopped suddenly. There was a thunderous noise outside, suchas the waves make in a cave. A company of people were coming in at thegate. Some were walking with the heavy step of men who carry a corpse. Others were bearing lanterns, and a few held high over their heads thetorches which fishermen use when they are hauling the white nets atnight. 

"Who's there?" cried Pete, in a voice that was like a howl. 

"Your friend, " said somebody. 

"_My_ friend? I have no friend, " cried Pete, in a broken roar. 

"'Deed he's gone, seemingly, " said a voice out of the dark. 

Pete did not hear. Seeing the crowd and the lights, but only as darknessveined with fire, he thought Philip was coming again, as he had so oftenseen him come in his glory, in his greatness, in his triumph. 

"Where is he?" he roared. "He's here, " they answered. 

And then Philip was brought up the path in the arms of four bearers, hishead hanging aside and shaking at every step, his face white as the wigabove it, and his gown trailing along the earth. 

There was a sudden calm, and Pete dropped back in awe and horror. A boltout of heaven seemed to have fallen at his feet, and he trembled as iflightning had blinded him. 

Dead!

His anger had ebbed, his fury had dashed itself against a rock. Histowering rage had shrunk to nothing in the face of this awful presence. The Dark Spirit had gone before him and snatched his victim out ofhis hands. He had come out to kill this man, and here he met him beingbrought home dead. 

Dead? Then his sin was dead also. God forgive him!

God forgive him, where he was gone! Presumptuous man, stand back. 

Oh, mighty and merciful Death! Death the liberator, the deliverer, thepardoner, the peace-maker! Even the shadow of thy face can quench thefires of revenge; even the gathering of thy wings can deaden the clamourof madness, and turn hatred into love and curses into prayers. 

X. 

In that stripped and naked house there was one room still untouched. Itwas the room that had been kept for the Deemster. Philip lay on the bed, motionless and apparently lifeless. Jem-y-Lord stood beating his handsat the foot. Pete sat on a low stool at the side with his face doubledon to his knees. Nancy, now back from Sulby, was blowing into the barsof the grate to kindle a fire. A little group of men stood huddled likesheep near the door. 

Some one said the Deemster's heart was beating. They brought fromanother room a little ivory hand-glass and held it over the mouth. Whenthey raised it the face of the mirror was faintly blurred. 

That little cloud on the glass seemed more bright than the shining treadof an angel on the sea. Jem-y-Lord took a sponge and began to moistenthe cold forehead. One by one the people behind produced their oldwife's wisdom. Somebody remembered that his grandmother always put saltsto the nostrils of a person seemingly dead; somebody else rememberedthat when, on the very day of old Iron Christian's death, his father hadbeen thrown by a colt and lay twelve hours unconscious, the farrier hadbled him and he had opened his eyes instantly. 

The doctor had been half an hour gone to Ballaugh, and a man had beenput on a horse and sent after him. But it was a twelve-miles' journey;the night was dark; it would be a good hour before he could be back. 

They touched Pete on the shoulder and suggested something. 

"Eh?" he answered vacantly. 

"Dazed, " they told themselves. The poor man could not give a wise-likeanswer. He had had a shock, and there was worse before him. They talkedin low voices of Kate and of Ross Christian; they were sorry for Pete;they were still more sorry for the Deemster. 

The Deemster's wig had been taken off and tossed on to thedressing-table. It lay mouth upwards like any old woman's night-cap. His hair had dragged after it on the pillow. The black gown had not beenremoved, but it was torn open at the neck so that the throat might befree. One of Philip's arms had dropped over the side of the bed, and thelong, thin hand was cold and green and ethereal as marble. 

Pete was crouching on his low stool beside this hand. He needed nosoftening to touch it now. The chill fingers were in his palm, and hishot tears were falling on them. Remembering the crime that he had sonearly committed, he was holding himself in horror. His friend! Hislife-long friend! His only friend! The Deemster no longer, but only theman. Not the man either, but the child. The cruel years had rolled backwith all their burden of trouble. Forgotten days were come again--dayslong buried under the _débris_ of memory. They were boys together again. A little, sunny fellow in velvet, and a bigger lad in a stocking-cap;the little one talking, always talking; the big one listening, alwayslistening; the little one proposing, the big one agreeing; the littleone leading, the big one following; the little one looking up and yeta little down, the big one looking down and yet a little up. Oh, thehappy, happy times, before anger and jealousy and rage and the madimpulse of murder had darkened their sun shine!

The memories that brought the tenderest throb to Pete as he sat therefingering the lifeless hand were of the great deeds that he had done forPhilip--how he had fought for him, and been licked for him, and takenbloody noses for him, and got thrashed for it by Black Tom. Butthere were others only less tender. Philip was leaving home for KingWilliam's, and Pete was cudgelling his dull head what to give him for aparting gift. Decision was the more difficult because he had nothingto give. At length he had hit on making a whistle--the only thing hisclumsy fingers had ever been deft at. With his clasp-knife he had cuta wondrous big one from the bough of a willow; he had pared it; he hadturned it; it blew a blast like a fog-horn. The morning was frosty, andhis feet were bare, but he didn't mind the cold; he didn't feel it--no, not a ha'p'orth. He was behind the hedge by the gate at Ballure, waitingfor the coach that was to take up Philip, and passing the time bypolishing the whistle on the leg of his shining breeches, and testingits tone with just one more blow. Then up came Crow, and out came Philipin his new peaked cap and leggings. Whoop! Gee-up! Away! Off they wentwithout ever seeing him, without once looking back, and he was left inthe prickly hedge with his blue feet on the frost, a look of dejectionabout his mouth, and the top of the foolish whistle peeping out of hisjacket-pocket. 

The thick sob that came of these memories was interrupted by a faintsound from the bed. It was a murmur of delirium, as soft as the hum ofbees, yet Pete heard it. 

"Cover me up, Pete, cover me up!" said Philip, dreaming aloud. 

Philip was a living man! Thank God! Thank God!

A whisper goes farther than a shout. The people behind whispered thenews to the passage, the passage to the stairs, the stairs to the hall, and the hall to the garden, where a crowd had gathered in the darknessto look up at the house over which the angel of death was hovering. 

In a moment the room was croaking like a frog-pond. "Praise the Lord!"cried one. "His mercy endureth for ever, " cried another. "What's hesaying?" said a third. "Rambling in his head, poor thing, " said afourth. 

Pete turned them out--all except Jem-y-Lord, who was still moisteningthe Deemster's face and opening his hands, which were now twitching andtightening. 

"Out of this! Out you go!" cried Pete hoarsely. 

"No use taking the anger with him--the man's tried, " they muttered, andaway they went. 

Jemmy was loth to see them go. He was afraid to be left alone withPete--afraid that the Deemster should be at the mercy of this wildcreature with the flaming eyes. 

And now that Philip was a living man Pete began to feel afraid ofhimself. At sight of life in Philip's face, his gnawing misery returned. He thought his hatred had been overcome, but he was wrestling in thethroes of forgiveness again. Here was the man who had robbed him of wifeand child and home! In another moment he might have held him in the gripof his just wrath. 

It is an inscrutable and awful fact, that just at that moment when aman's good angel has conquered, but is spent, his evil angel is sure toget the advantage of chance. Philip's delirium set in strong, and thebrute beast in Pete, going through its final struggle, stood over thebed and watched him. In his violence Philip tore at his breast, anddragged something from beneath his shirt. A moment later it fell fromhis graspless fingers to the floor. It was a lock of dark hair. Peteknew whose hair it was, and he put his foot on it, and that instant themad impulse came again to take Philip by the throat and choke him. Againand again it came. He had to tread it down even amid his sobs and histears. 

But love cannot be killed in an instant. It does not drop down dead. There was a sort of tenderness in the thought that this was the man forwhom Kate had given up all the world. Pete began to feel gently towardsPhilip because Kate loved him; he began to see something of Kate inPhilip's face. This strange softening increased as he caught the wordsof Philip's delirium. He thought he ought to leave the room, but hecould not tear himself away. Crouching down on the stool, he claspedhis hands behind his head, and tightened his arms over his ears. It wasuseless. He could not help but listen. Only disjointed sentences, oddpages torn from the book of life, some of them blurred with tears; butthey were like a cool hand on a fevered brow to him that heard him. 

"I was a child, Philip----didn't know what love was then----coming homeby Ramsey steamer----tell the simple truth, Philip----say we tried to befaithful and loyal and could not, because we loved each other, andthere was no help for----tell Kirry----yes, Auntie, I have read father'sletters----that picture is cracked----"

This in the voice of one who speaks in his sleep, and then in a hushed, hot whisper, "Haven't I a right to you?----yes, I have a right----takeyour topcoat, then, the storm is coming----I'll never let yougo----don't you remember?----can you ever forget----my husband!----myhusband!"

Pete lifted his head as he listened. He had been thinking that Philiphad robbed him of Kate. Was it he who had robbed Kate of Philip?

"I can't live any longer in this house, Philip----the walls are crushingme; the ceiling is falling on me; the air is stifling me----threeo'clock, Pete----yes, three to-morrow, in the Council Chamber atDouglas----I'm not a bad woman, Philip Christian----there is somethingyou have never guessed and I have never told you----is it the child, Kate?----did you say the child?----you are sure----you are not deceivingyourself?"

All this in a tone of deep entreaty, and then, with quick-coming breath, "Jemmy, get the carriage at Shimmin's and drive it yourself----if thereis any attempt at Ramsey to take the horse out----drive to the lanebetween the chapel and the cottage----the moment the lady joinsyou----you are right, Kate----you cannot live here any longer----thislife of deception must end----that's the churring of the night-jar goingup to Ballure Glen. "

Jem-y-Lord, who was beating out the pillow, dropped it, in his fumbling, half over the Deemster's face, and looked at Pete in terror. Would thiscruel delirium never break? Where was the doctor? Would he not come atall?

Pete had risen to his feet, and was gazing down with a look of stupor. He had been thinking that Philip had robbed him of the child. Was it hewho had robbed Philip?

"Yes, Pete is telling the same story. He is writing letters tohimself----such simple things!----poor old Pete----he means noharm----he never dreams that every word is burning----Jemmy, leave outmore brandy to-night, the decanter is empty----"

Pete leaned over the pillow. All at once he started back. Philip's eyeswere open and shining up at him. It was hard to believe that Philip wasnot speaking to him eye to eye. But there was a veil between them, theveil of the hand of God. 

"I know, Philip, _I_ know, " said the unconscious man in a quick whisper;he was breathing fast and loud. "Tell him I'm dead----yes, yes, that'sit, that's it----cruel?----no, but kind----'Poor girl, ' he'll say, 'Iloved her once, but she's gone'----I'll do it, I'll do it. " Then, intones of fear, "It's madness----to paint faces on the darkness, to hearvoices in the air is madness. " And then, solemnly, with a chill, thickutterance, "There----there----that one by the wall----"

Big drops of sweat broke out on Pete's forehead. Had he been thinkingthat Philip had tortured him? It was he who had been torturing Philip. The letters, the messages, the presents, these had been the whips andscorpions in his hand. Every innocent word, every look, every sign, hadbeen as thongs in the instrument of torture. Pete began to feel a greatpity for Philip. "He had suffered plenty, " thought Pete. "He has carriedthis cross about far enough. "

"Good-night, boatman!----I went too far----yes, I am back again, thankGod----"

These words brightly, cheerily, hopefully; then, in the deepest tones, "Good-bye, Philip----it's all my fault----I've broken the heart of oneman, and I'm destroying the soul of another----I'm leaving this lockof hair--it is all I have to leave----good-bye!----I ought to have gonelong ago----you will not hate me now----"

The last words frayed off, broke in the throat, and stopped. Thenquickly, with panting breath, came, "Kate! Kate! Kate!" again and againrepeated, beginning in a loud beseeching cry and dying down to a longwail, as if shouted over a gloomy waste wherein the voice was lost. 

Jem-y-Lord had been beating round towards the door, wringing his whitehands like a woman, and praying to God that the Deemster might nevercome out of his unconsciousness. "He has told him everything, " thoughtJem. "The man will take his life. "

"I came between them, " thought Pete. "She was not for me. She was notmine. She was Philip's. It was God's doings. "

The bitterness of Pete's heart had passed away. "But I wish----what'sthe good of wishing, though? God help us all, " he muttered, in abreaking voice, and then he crouched down on the stool as before andcovered his face with his hands. . 

Philip had lifted his head and risen on one elbow. He was looking outon the empty air with his glassy eyes, as if a picture stood up beforethem. 

"Yes, no, yes----don't tell me----that Kate?----it's a mistake----that'snot Kate----that white face!----those hollow eyes!----that miserablewoman!----besides, Kate is dead----she must be dead----what's to dowith the lamps?----they are going out----in the dock, too, and beforeme----she there and I here!----she the prisoner, I the judge!"

All this with violent emotion, and with one arm outstretched over Pete'scrouching head. 

"If I could hear her voice, though----perhaps her voice now----I'm goingto fall----it's Kate, it's Kate! Oh! oh!"

Philip had paused for several seconds, as if trying to listen, and then, with a loud cry of agony, he had closed his eyes and rolled back on tothe pillow. 

"God has meant me to hear all this, " thought Pete. God had intended thatfor this, the peace of his soul, he should follow the phases of thisdrama of a naked heart. He was sobbing, but his sobs were like growls. 

"What's he doing now?" thought Jem-y-Lord, craning his neck at the door. "Shall I call for somebody?"

Pete had picked up from the floor the lock of hair that had been lyingunder his foot, and he was putting it back into Philip's breast. 

"Nothing but me between them, " he thought, "nothing but me. "

"Sit down, sir, " cried the unconscious man. It was only the lastoutbreak of Philip's delirium, but Pete trembled and shrank back. 

Then Philip groaned and his blue lips quivered. He opened his eyes. Theywandered about the room for a moment, and afterwards fixed themselves onPete in a long and haggard gaze. Pete's own eyes were too full of tearsto be full of sight, but he could see that the change had come. Hepanted with expectation, and looked down at Philip with doglike delight. 

There was a moment's silence, and then, in a voice as faint as a breath, Philip murmured. "What's----where's----is it Pete?"

At that Pete uttered a shout of joy. "He's himself! He's himself! ThankGod!"

"Eh?" said Philip helplessly. 

"Don't you be bothering yourself now, " cried Pete. "Lie quiet, boy;you're in your own room, and as nice as nice. "

"But, " said Philip, "will you not kindly----"

"Not another word, Phil. It's nothing. You're all serene, and about asright as ninepence. "

"Your Honour has been delirious, " said Jem-y-Lord. 

"Chut!" said Pete behind his hand, and then, with another joyful shout, "Is it a beefsteak you'll be having, Phil, or a dish of tay and aherring?"

Philip looked perplexed. "But could you not help me----" he faltered. 

"You fainted in the Court-house, sir, " said Jem-y-Lord. 

"Ah!" It had all come back. 

"Hould your whisht, you gawbie, " whispered Pete, and he made a furtivekick at Jemmy's shins. 

Pete was laughing and crying in one breath. In the joyful reflux fromevil passions the great fellow was like a boy. He poked the fire into ablaze, snuffed the candle with his fingers, sang out "My gough!" when heburnt them, and then hopped about the floor and cut as many capers as aswallow after a shower of rain. 

Philip looked at him and relapsed into silence. It seemed as if he hadbeen on a journey and something had happened in his absence. The secretwhich he had struggled so long to confess had somehow been revealed. 

Jem-y-Lord was beating out his pillows. "Does he know?" said Philip. --"Yes, " whispered Jemmy. 

"Everything!"

"Everything. You have been delirious. "

"Delirious!" said Philip, with alarm. 

Then he struggled to rise. "Help me up. Let me go away. Why did youbring me here?"

"I couldn't help it, sir. I tried to prevent----"

"I cannot face him, " said Philip. "I am afraid. Help me, help me. "

"You are too weak, sir. Lie still. No one shall harm you. The doctor iscoming. "

Philip sank back with a look of fear. "Water, " he cried feebly. 

"Here it is, " said Jem-y-Lord, lifting from the dressing-table the jugout of which he had moistened the sponge. 

"Tut!" cried Pete, and he tipped the jug so that half the water spilled. "Brandy for a man when he's in bed, you goosey gander. Hould, hard, boy;I've a taste of the rael stuff in the cupboard. Half a minute, mate. A drop will be doing no harm at all, " and away he went down the stairslike a flood, almost sweeping over Nancy, who had come creeping up inher stockings at the sound of voices. 

The child had awakened in its cradle, and, with one dumpy leg over itslittle quilt, it was holding quiet converse with its toes. 

"Hollo, young cockalorum, is it there you are!" shouted Pete. 

At the next moment, with a noggin bottle of brandy in his fist, he wasleaping upstairs, three steps at a time. 

Meanwhile Jem-y-Lord had edged up to the Deemster and whispered, withlooks of fear and mystery, "Don't take it, sir. "

"What?" said Philip vacantly. --"The brandy, " said Jem. 

"Eh?"

"It will be----" began Jem, but Pete's step was thundering up thestairs, and with a big opening of the mouth, rather than an audibleutterance of the tongue, he added, "poisoned. "

Philip could not comprehend, and Pete came shouting--

"Where's your water, now, ould Snuff-the-Wind?"

While Pete was pouring the brandy into a glass and adding the water, Jemmy caught up a scrap of newspaper that was lying about, rummagedfor a pencil, wrote some words on the margin, tore the piece off, andsmuggled it into the Deemster's hand. 

"Afraid of Pete!" thought Philip. "It is monstrous! monstrous!"

At that moment there was the sound of a horse's hoofs on the road. 

"The doctor, " cried Jem-y-Lord. "The doctor at last. Wait, sir, wait, "and he ran downstairs. 

"Here you are, " cried Pete, coming to the bedside, glass in hand. "Drinkit up, boy. It'll stiffen you. My faith, but it's a oner. Aw, God isgood, though. He's all that. He's good tremenjous. "

Pete was laughing; he was crying; he was tasting a new sweetness--thesweetness of being a good man again. 

Philip was holding Jem-y-Lord's paper before his eyes, and trying toread it. 

"What's this that Jemmy has given me?" he said. "Read it, Pete. My eyesare dazed. "

Pete took the paper in his left hand, still holding the glass in hisright. To get the light on to the writing he went down on his knees bythe bed-head and leaned over towards the fire. Then, like a school-boyrepeating his task, he read in a singsong voice the words thatJem-y-Lord had written:--"Don't drink the brandy. Pete is trying to killyou. "

Pete made a grating laugh. "That's a pretty thing now, " he began, buthe could not finish. His laughter ceased, his eyes opened wide, histongue seemed to hang out of his mouth, and he turned his head andlooked back with an agony of doubt into Philip's face. 

Philip struggled up. "Give me the brandy, Pete. " He took the glass outof Pete's hand, and without a second thought, with only a smile of faithand confidence, he raised it to his lips and drank. When the doctorentered the room a moment afterwards, Pete was sobbing into thebed-clothes, and Philip's hand was resting on his head. 

XI. 

Early the next morning Pete visited Kate in prison. He had somethingto say to her, something to ask; but he intended to keep back his ownfeelings, to bear himself bravely, to sustain the poor girl's courage. The light was cold and ashen within the prison walls, and as he followedthe sergeant into the cell, he could not help but think of Kate as hehad first known her, so bright, so merry, so full of life and gaiety. He found her now doubled up on a settle by a newly-kindled fire in thesergeant's own apartment. She lifted her head, with a terrified look, as he entered, and she saw his hollow cheeks and deep eyes and raggedbeard. 

"I'm not coming to trouble you, " he said. "I've forgiven _him_, and I'mforgiving you, too. "

"You are very good, " she answered nervously. 

"Good?" He gave a crack of bitter laughter. "I meant to kill him--that'show good I am. And it's the same as if all the devils out of hell hadbeen at me the night through to do it still. Maybe I hadn't muchto forgive. I'm like a bat in the light--I'm not knowing where I amezactly. Daresay the people will laugh at me when they're getting toknow. Wouldn't trust, but they'll think me a poor-spirited cur, anyway. Let them--there's never much pity for the dog that's licked. "

His voice shook, although so hard and so husky. "That's not what I cameto say, though. You'll be laving this place soon, and I'm wanting toask--I'm wanting to know----"

She had covered her face, and now she said through her hands, "Do as youlike with me, Pete. You are my husband, and I must obey. "

He looked down at her for a moment. "But you cannot love me?"

"I have deceived you, and whatever you tell me to do I will do it. "

"But you cannot love me?"

"I'll be a good wife for the future* Pete--I will, indeed, indeed Iwill. "

"But you cannot love me?"

She began to cry. "That's enough, " he said. "I'll not force you. "

"You are very good, " she said again. 

He laughed more bitterly than before. "Dou yo think I'm wanting yourbody while another man has your heart? That's a game I've played aboutlong enough, I'm thinking. Good? Not me, missis. "

His eyes, which had been fixed on the fire, wandered to his wife, andthen his lips quivered and his manner changed. 

"I'm hard--I'll cut it short. Fact is, I've detarmined to do something, but I've a question to ask first. You've suffered since you left me, Kate. He has dragged you down a dale--but tell me, do you love himstill?"

She shuddered and crept closer to the wall. 

"Don't be freckened. It's a woman's way to love the man that's donewrong by her. Being good to her is nothing--sarvice is nothing--kindnessis nothing. Maybe there's some ones that cry shame on her for that--butnot me. Giving herself, body and soul, and thinking nothing what shegets for it--that's the glory of a woman when she cares for anybody. Spake up, Kate--do you love him in spite of all?"

The answer came in a whisper that was like a breath--"Yes. "

"That'll do, " said Pete. 

He pressed his hand against the place of his old wound. "I might haveknown you could never care for me--I might have known that, " he saidwith difficulty. "But don't think I can't stand my rackups, as thesaying is. I know my course now--I know my job. "

She was sobbing into her hands, and he was breathing fast and loud. 

"One word more--only one--about the child. "

"Little Katherine!"

"Have I a right to her?"

She gasped audibly, but did not answer, and he tried a second time. 

"Does she belong to me, Kate?"

Her confusion increased. He tried a third time, speaking more gentlythan before. 

"If I should lave the island, Kate, could I--must I--may I take thechild along with me?"

At that her fear got the better of her shame, and she cried, "Don't takeher away. Oh, don't, don't!"

"Ah!"

He pressed his hand hard at his side again. 

"But maybe that's only mother's love, and what mother----"

He broke off and then began once more, in a voice so low that it wasscarcely to be heard. "Tell me, when the time comes--and it will come, Kate, have no fear about that----"

He was breaking down, he was struggling hard. "When the time comes forhimself and you to be together, will you be afraid to have thelittle one with you--will it seem wrong, Kate--you two and littleKatherine--one household--one family--no?--n--o?"

"No. "

"That's enough. "

The words seemed to come out of the depths of his throat. "I've nothingmore to think about. _He_ must think of all the rest. "

"And you, Pete?"

"What matter about me? D'ye think there's anything worse coming? D'yethink I'm caring what I ate, and what I drink, and what becomes of me?"

He was laughing again, and her sobs broke out afresh. 

"God is good, " he said more quietly. "He'll take care of the likes ofme. "

His motionless eyes were on the crackling fire, and he stood in thelight that flashed from it with a face like stone. "I've no child now, "he muttered, as though speaking to himself. 

She slid to her knees at his feet, took the hand that hung by his sideand began to cover it with kisses. "Forgive me, " she said; "I have beenvery weak and very guilty. "

"What's the use of talking like that?" he answered. "What's past ispast, " and he drew his hand away. "No child now, no child now, " hemuttered again, as though his dispair cried out to God. 

He was feeling like a man wrecked in mid-ocean. A spar came floatingtowards him. It was all he could lay hold of from the foundering ship, in which he had sailed, and sung, and laughed, and slept. He had thoughtto save his life by it, but another man was clinging to it, and he hadto drop it and go down. 

She could not look into his face again; she could not touch his hand;she could not ask for his forgiveness. He stood over her for a momentwithout speaking, and then, with his hollow cheeks, and deep eyes, andragged heard, he went away in the morning sunlight. 

XII. 

Phillip fell into a deep sleep. When he awoke, he saw, as in a mirror, a solution to the tumultuous drama of his life. It was a glorioussolution, a liberating and redeeming end, an end bringing freedom fromthe bonds which had beset him. What matter if it was hard; if it wasdifficult; if it was bitter as Marah and steep as Calvary? He was ready, he was eager. Oh, blessed sleep! Oh, wise and soothing sleep I Ithad rent the dark cloud of his past and given the flash of light thatillumined the path before him. 

He opened his eyes and saw Auntie Nan seated by his side, reading avolume of sermons. At the change in his breathing the old dove lookedround, dropped the book, and began to flutter about. "Hush, dearest, hush!" she whispered. 

There was a heavy, monotonous sound, like the beating of a distant drumor the throb of an engine under the earth. 

"Auntie!"--"Yes, dearest. "

"What day is it?"

"Sunday. Oh, you've had a long, long sleep, Philip. You slept all dayyesterday. "

"Is that the church-bell ringing?"

"Yes, dear, and a fine morning, too--so soft and springlike. I'll openthe window. "

"Then my hearing must be injured. "

"Ah! they muffled the bell--that's it. 'The church is so near, ' theysaid, 'it might trouble him. '"

A carriage was coming down the road. It rattled on the paved way; thenthe rattling ceased, and there was a dull rumble as of a cart slidingon to a wooden bridge. "That horse has fallen, " said Philip, trying torise. 

"It's only the straw on the street, " said Auntie Nan. "The peoplebrought it from all parts. 'We must deaden the traffic by the house, 'they said. Oh, you couldn't think how good they've been. Yesterday wasmarket-day, but there was no business done. Couldn't have been; theywere coming and going the whole day long. 'And how's the Deemster now?''And how's he now?' It was fit to make you cry. I believe in my heart, Philip, nobody in Ramsey went to bed the first night at all. Everybodywaiting and waiting to see if there wasn't something to fetch, and thekettle kept boiling in every kitchen round about. But hush, dearest, hush! Not so much talking all at once. Hush, now!"

"Where is Pete?" asked Philip, his face to the wall. 

"Oiling the hinges of the door, dearest. He was laying carpets on thestairs all day yesterday. But never the sound of a hammer. The man'swonderful. He must have hands like iron. His heart's soft enough, though. But then everybody is so kind--everybody, everybody! The doctor, and the vicar, and the newspapers--oh, it's beautiful! It's just as Petewas saying. "

"What was Pete saying, Auntie?"

"He was saying the angels must think there's somebody sick in everyhouse in the island. "

A sound of singing came through the open window, above the whisper ofyoung leaves and the twitter of birds. It was the psalm that was beingsung in church--

 "Blessed is the man that considereth the poor and needy; The Lord shall deliver him in time of trouble. "

"Listen, Philip. That must be a special psalm. I'm sure they're singingit for you. How sweet of them! But we are talking too much, dear. Thedoctor will scold. I must leave you now, Philip. Only for a little, though, while I go back to Bal lure, and I'll send up Cottier. "

"Yes, send up Cottier, " said Philip. 

"My darling, " said the old soul, looking down as she tied her bonnetstrings. "You'll lie quiet now? You're sure you'll lie quiet? Well, goodbye! good-bye!"

As Philip lay alone the soar and swell of the psalm filled the room. Oh, the irony of it all! The frantic, hideous, awful irony! He waslying there, he, the guilty one, with the whole island watching at hisbedside, pitying him, sorrowing for him, holding its breath until heshould breathe, and she, his partner, his victim, his innocent victim, was in jail, in disgrace, in a degradation more deep than death. Stillthe psalm soared and swelled. He tried to bury his head in the pillowsthat he might not hear. 

Jem-y-Lord came in hurriedly and Philip beckoned him close. "Where isshe?" he whispered. 

"They removed her to Castle Rushen late last night, your Honour, " saidJemmy softly. 

"Write immediately to the Clerk of the Bolls, " said Philip. "Say shemust be lodged on the debtors' side and have patients' diet and everycomfort. My Kate! my Kate!" he kept saying, "it shall not be for long, not for long, my love, not for long!"

The convalescence was slow and Philip was impatient. "I feel betterto-day, doctor, " he would say, "don't you think I may get out of bed?"

"_Traa dy liooar_ (time enough), Deemster, " the doctor would answer. "Let us see what a few more days will do. "

"I have a great task before me, doctor, " he would say again. "I mustbegin immediately. "

"You have a life's work before you, Deemster, and you must begin soon, but not just yet. "

"I have something particular to do, doctor, " he said at last. "I mustlose no time. "

"You must lose no time indeed, that's why you must stay where you are alittle longer. "

One morning his impatience overcame him, and he got out of bed. But, being on his feet, his head reeled, his limbs trembled, he clutched atthe bed-post, and had to clamber back. "Oh God, bear me witness, thisdelay is not my fault, " he murmured. 

Throughout the day he longed for the night, that he might close his eyesin the darkness and think of Kate. He tried to think of her as sheused to be--bright, happy, winsome, full of joy, of love, of passion, dangling her feet from the apple-tree, or tripping along the tree-trunkin the glen, teasing him? tempting him. It was impossible. He couldonly think of her in, the gloom of the prison. That filled his mind withterrors. Sometimes in the dark hours his enfeebled body beset his brainwith fantastic hallucinations. Calling for paper and pens, he would makeshow of writing a letter, producing no words or intelligible signs, butonly a mass of scrawls and blotches. This he would fold and refold withgreat elaboration, and give to Jem y-Lord with an air of gravity andmystery, saying in a whisper, "For her!" Thus night brought no solace, and the dawn found him waiting for the day, that he might open his eyesin the sunlight and think, "She is better where she is; God will comforther. "

A fortnight went by and he saw nothing of Pete. At length he made a callon his courage and said, "Auntie, why does Pete never come?"

"He does, dearest. Only when you're asleep, though. He stands there inthe doorway in his stockings. I nod to him and he comes in and looksdown at you. Then he goes away without a word. "

"What is he doing now?"

"Going to Douglas a good deal seemingly. Indeed, they're saying--butthen people are so fond of talking. "

"What are people saying, Auntie?"

"It's about a divorce, dearest!"

Philip groaned and turned away his face. 

He opened his eyes one day from a doze, and saw the plain face of NancyJoe, framed in a red print handkerchief. The simple creature was talkingwith Auntie Nan, holding council, and making common cause with thedainty old lady as unmarried women and old maids both of them. 

"'Why don't you keep your word true?' says I. 'Wasn't you saying you'dtake her back, ' says I, 'whatever she'd done and whatever she was, sohelp you God?' says I. 'Isn't she shamed enough already, poor thing, without you going shaming her more? Have you no bowels at all? Are youonly another of the gutted herrings on a stick?' says I. 'Why don't youkeep your word true?' 'Because, ' says he, 'I want to be even with theother one, ' says he, and then away he went wandering down by the tide. "

"It's unchristian, Nancy, " said Auntie Nan, "but it's human; foralthough he forgives the woman, he can hardly be expected to forgive theman, and he can't punish one without punishing both. "

"Much good it'll do to punish either, say I. What for should he put uphis fins now the hook's in his gizzard? But that's the way with the menstill. Talking and talking of love and love; but when trouble is coming, no better than a churn of sour cream on a thundery day. We're best offthat never had no truck with them--I don't know what you think, MissChristian, ma'am. They may talk about having no chances--I don't mindif they do--do you? I had chance enough once, though--I don't know whatyou've had, ma'am. I had one sweetheart, anyway--a sort of a sweetheart, as you might say; but he was sweeter on the money than on me. Alwaysasking how much I had got saved in the stocking. And when he heard I hadthree new dresses done, 'Nancy, ' says he, 'we had better be putting asight up on the parzon now, before they're all wore out at you. '"

The Governor, who was still in London, wrote a letter full of tendersolicitude and graceful compliment. The Clerk of the Rolls had arrangedfrom the first that two telegrams should be sent to him daily, givingaccounts of Philip's condition. At last the Clerk came in person, and threw Auntie Nan into tremors of nervousness by his noise androbustious-ness. He roared as he came along the path, roared himselfthrough the hall, up the stairs, and into the bedroom, roared againas he set eyes on Philip, protesting that the sick man was worth fivehundred dead men yet, and vowing with an oath (and a tear trickling downhis nose) that he would like to give "time" to the fools who frightenedgood people with bad reports. Then he cleared the room for a privateconsultation. "Out you go, Cottier. Look slippy, man!"

Auntie Nan fled in terror. When she had summoned resolution to invadeafresh the place of the bear that had possession of her lamb, the Clerkof the Rolls was rising from the foot of the bed and saying--

"We'll leave it at that then, Christian. These d------ things _will_happen; but don't you bother your head about it. I'll make it allserene. Besides, it's nothing--nothing in a lifetime. I'll have to sendyou the summons, though. You needn't trouble about that; just toss itinto the fire. "

Philip's head was down, his eyes were on the counterpane, and a fainttinge of colour overspread his wasted face. 

"Ah! you're back, Miss Christian? I must be going, though. Good-bye, old fellow! Take care of yourself--good men are scarce. Good-bye, MissChristian! Good-bye, all! Good-bye, Phil! God bless you!"

With that he went roaring down the stairs, but came thunging up again ina moment, put his head round the doorpost, and said--

"Lord bless my soul, if I wasn't forgetting an important bit ofnews--very important news, too! It hasn't got into the papers yet, but I've had the official wrinkle. What d'ye think?--the Governor hasresigned! True as gospel. Sent in his resignation to the Home Officethe night before last. I saw it coming. He hasn't been at home sinceTynwald. Look sharp and get better now. Good-bye!"

Philip got up for the first time the day following. The weather was softand full of whispers of spring; the window was open and Philip sat withhis face in the direction of the sea. Auntie Nan was knitting by hisside and running on with homely gossip. The familiar and genial talkwas floating over the surface of his mind as a sea-bird floats over thesurface of the sea, sometimes reflected in it, sometimes skimming it, sometimes dipping into it and being lost. 

"Poor Pete! The good woman here thinks he's hard. Perhaps he is; but I'msure he is much to be pitied. Ross has behaved badly and deserves allthat can come to him. 'He's the same to me as you are, dear--in blood, I mean--but somehow I can't be sorry. . . . Ah! you're too tender-hearted, Philip, indeed you are. You'd find excuses for anybody. The doctor saysoverwork, dearest; but _I_ say the shock of seeing that poor creature inthat awful position. And what a shock you gave me, too! To tell you thetruth, Philip, I thought it was a fate. Never heard of it? No? Neverheard that grandfather fainted on the bench? He did, though, and hedidn't recover either. How well I remember it! Word broke over the townlike a clap of thunder, 'The Deemster has fallen in the Court-house. 'Father heard it up at Ballure and ran down bareheaded. Grandfather'scarriage was at the Courthouse door, and they brought him up toBallawhaine. I remember I was coming downstairs when I saw the carriagedraw up at the gate. The next minute your father, with his wild eyes andhis bare head, was lifting something out of the inside. Poor Tom! He hadnever set foot in the house since grandfather had driven him out of it. And little did grandfather think in whose arms he was to travel the laststage of his life's journey. "

Philip had fallen asleep. Jem-y-Lord entered with a letter. It was in alarge envelope and had come by the insular post. 

"Shall I open it?" thought Auntie Nan. She had been opening and replyingto Philip's letters during the time of his illness, but this one borean official seal, and so she hesitated. "Shall I?" she thought, with theknitting needle to her lip. "I will. I may save him some worry. "

She fixed her glasses and drew out the letter. It was a summons from theChancery Division of the High Court of Justice--a petition for divorce. The petitioner's name was Peter Quilliam; the respondent----, the corespondent----. 

As Philip awoke from his doze, with the salt breath of the sea in hisnostrils and the songs of spring in his ears, Auntie Nan was fumblingwith the paper to get it back into the envelope. Her hands trembled, and when she spoke her voice quivered. Philip saw in a moment what hadhappened. She had stumbled into the pit where the secret of his life layburied. 

The doctor came in at that instant. He looked attentively at Auntie Nan, and said significantly, "You have been nursing too long, Miss Christian, you must go home for a while. "

"I will go home at once, " she faltered, in a feeble inward voice. 

Philip's head was on his breast. Such was the first step on the Calvaryhe intended to ascend. O God, help him! God support him! God bear up hissinking feet that he might not fall from weakness, or fear, or shame. 

XIII. 

Cæsar visited Kate at Castle Rushen. He found her lodged in a large andlight apartment (once the dining-room of the Lords of Man), indulgedwith every comfort, and short of nothing but her liberty. As the turnkeypulled the door behind him, Cæsar lifted both hands and cried, "The Lordis my refuge and my strength; a very present help in trouble. " Then heinquired if Pete had been there before him, and being answered "No, " hesaid, "The children of this world are wiser in their generation than thechildren of light. " After that he fell to the praise of the Deemster, who had not only given Kate these mercies, comfortable to her carnalbody, if dangerous to her soul, but had striven to lighten the burden ofher people at the time when he had circulated the report of her death, knowing she was dead indeed, dead in trespasses and sins, and choosingrather that they should mourn her as one who was already dead in fact, than feel shame for her as one that was yet alive in iniquity. 

Finally, he dropped his handkerchief on to the slate floor, -went downon one knee by the side of his tall hat, and called on her in prayerto cast in her lot afresh with the people of God. "May her lightness berebuked, O Lord!" he cried. "Give her to know that until she repentsshe hath no place among Thy children. And, Lord, succour Thy servant inhis hour of tribulation. Let him be well girt up with Christian armour. Help him to cry aloud, amid his tears and his lamentations, 'Though myheart and hers should break, Thy name shall not be dishonoured, my Lordand my God!'"

Rising from his knee and dusting it, Cæsar took up his tall hat, andleft Kate as he had found her, crouching by the fire inside the wideingle of the old hall, covering her face and saying nothing. 

He was in this mood of spiritual exaltation as he descended the stepsinto the Keep, and came upon a man in the dress of a prisoner sweepingwith a besom. It was Black Tom. Cæsar stopped in front of him, movedhis lips, lifted his face to the sky, shut both eyes, then opened themagain, and said in a voice of deep sorrow, "Aw, Thomas! Thomas Quilliam!I'm taking grief to see thee, man. An ould friend, whose hand has restedin my hand, and swilling the floor of a prison! Well, I warned theeoften. But thou wast ever stony ground, Thomas. And now thou must seefor thyself whether was I right that honesty is the better policy. Lookat thee, and look at me. The Lord has delivered me, and prospered meeven in temporal things. I have lands and I have houses. And what hastthou thyself? Nothing but thy conscience and thy disgrace. Even thy veryclothes they have taken away from thee, and they would take thy hairitself if thou had any. "

Black Tom stood with feet flatly planted apart, rested himself on theshank of his besom, and said, "Don't be playing cammag (shindy) with me, Mr. Holy Ghoster. It isn't honesty that's making the diff'rance betweenus at all--it's luck. You've won and I've lost, you've succeeded andI've failed, you're wearing your chapel hat and I'm in this bit of asaucepan lid, but you're only a reg'lar ould Pharisee, anyway. "

Cæsar waved his hand. "I can't take the anger with thee, Thomas, " hesaid, backing himself out. "I thought the devil had been chained sinceour last camp-meeting, but I was wrong seemingly. He goeth about stilllike a raging lion, seeking whom he may devour. "

"Don't be trying to knock me down with your tex'es, " said Thomas, shouldering his besom. "Any cock can crow on his own midden. "

"You can't help it, Thomas, " said Cæsar, edging away. "It isn't my ouldfriend that's blaspheming at all. It's the devil that has entered intohis heart and is rending him. But cast the devil out, man, or hell willbe thy portion. "

"I was there last night in my dreams, Cæsar, " said Black Tom, followinghim up. "'Oh, Lord Devil, let me in, ' says I. 'Where d'ye come from?'says he. 'The Isle of Man, ' says I. 'I'm not taking any more from theretill my Bishop comes, ' says he. 'Who's that?' says I. 'Bishop Cæsar, thepublican--who else?' says he. "

"I marvel at thee, Thomas, " said Cæsar, half through the small doorof the portcullis, "but the sons of Belial have to fight hard for histhrone. I'll pray for thee, though, that it be not remembered againstthee when(D. V. ) there will be weeping and wailing and gnashing ofteeth. "

That night Cæsar visited the Deemster at Elm Cottage. His eyesglittered, and there was a look of frenzy in his face. He was still inhis mood of spiritual pride, and when he spoke it was always with thethees and the thous and in the high pitch of the preacher. 

"The Ballawhaine is dead, your Honour, " he cried, "They wouldn't have metell thee before because of thy body's weakness, but now they suffer it. Groanings and moanings and 'stericks of torment! Ter'ble sir, ter'ble!Took a notion he would have water poured out for him at the last. Itcouldn't wash him clane, though. And shouting with his dying voice, 'I've sinned, O God, I've sinned!' Oh, I delivered my soul, sir; he canclear me of that, anyway. 'Lay hould of a free salvation, ' says I. 'I'venot lived a right life, ' says he. 'Truth enough, ' says I; 'you've liveda life of carnal freedom, but now is the appointed time. Say, "Lord, I belaive; help thou my unbelaife. "' 'Too late, Mr. Cregeen, too late, 'says he, and the word was scarce out of his mouth when he was key-coldin a minute, and gone into the night of all flesh that's lost. Well, it was his own son that killed him, sir; robbed him of every silversixpence and ruined him. The last mortgage he raised was to keep theyoung man out of prison for forgery. Bad, sir, bad! To indulge a childto its own damnation is bad. A human infirmity, though; and I'm feelingfor the poor sinner myself being tempted--that is to say inclining--butthank the Lord for his strengthening arm----"

"Is he buried?" asked Philip. 

"Buried enough, and a poor funeral too, sir, " said Cæsar, walking theroom with a proud step, the legs straightened, the toes conspicuouslyturned out. "Driving rain and sleet, sir, the wind in the trees, thegrass wet to your calf, and the parson in his white smock under theumbrella. Nobody there to spake of, neither; only myself and the tenantsmostly. "

"Where was Ross?"

"Gone, sir, without waiting to see his foolish ould father pushed underthe sod. Well, there was not much to wait for neither. The young man hasbeen a besom of fire and burnt up everything. Not so much left as wouldbuy a rope to hang him. And Ballawhaine is mine, sir; mine in a way ofspak-ing--my son-in-law's, anyway--and he has given me the right to haveand to hould it. Aw, a Sabbath time, sir; a Sabbath time. I made up mymind to have it the night the man struck me in my own house in Sulby. Hebetrayed my daughter at last, sir, and took her from her home, and thenher husband lent six thousand pounds on mortgage. 'Do what you like withit, ' said he, and I said to myself, 'The man shall starve; he shall bea beggar; he shall have neither bread to eat, nor water to drink, nor aroof to cover him. ' And the moment the breath was out of the ould man'sbody I foreclosed. "

Philip was trembling from head to foot. "Do you mean, " he faltered, "that that was your reason?"

"It is the Lord's hand on a rascal, " said Cæsar, "and proud am I to bethe instrument of his vengeance. 'God moves in a mysterious way, ' sir. Oh, the Lord is opening His word more and more. And I have more to tellthee, too. Balla-whaine would belong to thyself, sir, if every one hadhis rights. It was thy grandfather's inheritance, and it should havebeen thy father's, and it ought to be thine. Take it, sir, take it onthy own terms; it is worth a matter of twelve thousand, but thou shalthave it for nine, and pay for it when the Lord gives thee substance. Thou hast been good to me and to mine, and especially to the poor lostlamb who lies in the Castle to-night in her shame and disgrace. Littledid I think I should ever repay thee, though. But it is the Lord'sdoings. It is marvellous in our eyes. 'Deep in unfathomable mines'----"

Cæsar was pacing the room and speaking in tones of rapture. Philip, whowas sitting at the table, rose from it with a look of fear. 

"Frightful! frightful!" he muttered. "A mistake! a mistake!"

"The Lord God makes no mistakes, sir, " cried Cæsar. 

"But what if it was not Ross----" began Philip. Cæsar paid no heed. 

"What if it was not Ross----" Cæsar glanced over his shoulder. 

"What if it was some one else----" said Philip. Cæsar stopped in frontof him. 

"Some one you have never thought of--some one you have respected andeven held in honour----"

"Who, then?" said Cæsar huskily. 

"Mr. Cregeen, " said Philip, "it is hard for me to speak. I had notintended to speak yet; but I should hold myself in horror if I weresilent now. You have been living in awful error. Whatever the cost, whatever the consequences, you must not remain in that error a momentlonger. It was not Ross who took away your daughter. "

"Who was it?" cried Cæsar. His voice had the sound of a cracked bell. 

Philip struggled hard. He tried to confess. His eyes wandered about thewalls. "As you have cherished a mistaken resentment, " he faltered, "soyou have nourished a mistaken gratitude. "

"Who? who?" cried Cæsar, looking fixedly into Philip's face. 

Philip's rigid fingers were crawling over the papers on the table likethe claws of crabs. They touched the summons from the Chancery Court, and he picked it up. 

"Read this, " he said, and held it out to Cæsar. 

Cæsar took it, but continued to look at Philip with eyes that werethreatening in their wildness. Philip felt that in a moment theirpositions had been changed. He was the judge no longer, but only acriminal at the bar of this old man, this grim fanatic, half-mad alreadywith religious mania. 

"The Lord of Hosts is mighty, " muttered Cæsar; and then Philip heard thepaper crinkle in his hand. 

Cæsar was feeling for his spectacles. When he had liberated them fromthe sheath, he put them on the bridge of his nose upside down. Withthe two glasses against the wrinkles of his forehead and his eyes stilluncovered, he held the paper at arm's length and tried to read it. Thenhe took out his red print handkerchief to dust the spectacles. Fumblingspectacles and sheath and handkerchief and paper in his trembling handstogether, he muttered again in a quavering voice, as if to fortifyhimself against what he was to see, "The Lord of Hosts is mighty. "

He read the paper at length, and there was no mistaking it. "Quilliam v. Quilliam and Christian (Philip). "

He laid the summons on the table, and returned his spectacles to theirsheath. His breathing made noises in his nostrils. "_Ugh cha nee!_" (woeis me), he muttered. "_Ugh cha nee! Ugh cha nee!_"

Then he looked helplessly around and said, "Depart from me, for I am asinful man, O Lord. "

The vengeance that he had built up day by day had fallen in a momentinto ruins. His hypocrisy was stripped naked. "I see how it is, " he saidin a hoarse voice. "The Lord has de-ceaved me to punish me. It is thepublic-house. Ye cannot serve God and mammon. What's gained on thedevil's back is lost under his belly. I thought I was a child of God, but the deceitfulness of riches has choked the word. _Ugh cha nee! Ughcha nee!_ My prosperity has been like the quails, only given with theintent of choking me. _Ugh cha nee!_"

His spiritual pride was broken down. The Almighty had refused to be madea tool of. He took up his hat and rolled his arm over it the wrong wayof the nap. Half-way to the door he paused. "Well, I'll be laving you;good-day, sir, " he said, nodding his head slowly. "The Lord's beenknowing what you were all the time seemingly. But what's the use of Hisknowing--He never tells on nobody. And I've been calling on sinners toflee from the wrath, and He's been letting the devils make a mock atmyself! _Ugh cha nee! Ugh cha nee!_"

Philip had slipped back in his chair, and his head had fallen forward'on the table. He heard the old man go out; he heard his heavy step dropslowly down the stairs; he heard his foot dragging on the path outside. "_Ugh cha nee! Ugh cha nee!_" The word rang in his heart like a knell. 

Jem-y-Lord, who had been out in the town, came back in great excitement. 

"Such news, your Honour! Such splendid news!"

"What is it?" said Philip, without lifting his head. 

"They're signing petitions all over the island, asking the Queen tomake you Governor. "

"God in heaven!" said Philip; "that would be frightful. "

XIV. 

When Philip was fit to go out, they brought up a carriage and drovehim round the bay. The town had awakened from its winter sleep, and theharbour was a busy and cheerful scene. More than a hundred men had comefrom their crofts in the country, and were making their boats ready forthe mackerel-fishing at Kinsale. There was a forest of masts where theflat hulls had been, the taffrails and companions were touched up withpaint, and the newly-barked nets were being hauled over the quay. 

"Good morning, Dempster, " cried the men. 

They all saluted him, and some of them, after their Manx fashion, drewup at the carriage-door, lifted their caps with their tarry hands, andsaid--

"Taking joy to see you out again, Dempster. When a man's getting over anattack like that, it's middling clear the Lord's got work for him. "

Philip answered with smiles and bows and cheerful words, but thekindness oppressed him. He was thinking of Kate. She was the victimof his success. For all that he received she had paid the penalty. Hethought of her dreams, her golden dreams, her dreams of going up side byside and hand in hand with the man she loved. "Oh, my love, my love!" hemurmured. "Only a little longer. "

The doctor was waiting for him when he reached home. 

"I have something to say to you, Deemster, " he said, with averted face. "It's about your aunt. "

"Is she ill?" said Philip. --"Very ill. "

"But I've inquired daily. "

"By her express desire the truth has been kept back from you. "

"The carriage is still at the door----" began Philip. 

"I've never seen any one sink so rapidly. She's all nerve. No doubt thenursing exhausted her. "

"It's not that--I'll go up immediately. "

"She was to expect you at five. "

"I cannot wait, " said Philip, and in a moment he was on the road. "OGod!" he thought, "how steep is the path I have to tread. "

On getting to Ballure, he pushed through the hall and stepped upstairs. At the door of Auntie Nan's bedroom he was met by Martha, the housemaid, now the nurse. She looked surprised, and made some nervous show ofshutting him out. Before she could dc so he was already in the room. Theair was heavy with the smell of medicines and vinegar and the odours ofsick life. 

"Hush!" said Martha, with a movement of lips and eyebrows. 

Auntie Nan was asleep in a half-sitting position on the bed. It was ashock to see the change in her. The beautiful old face was white anddrawn with pain; the chin was hanging heavily; the eyes were half open;there was no cap on her head; her hair was straggling loosely and wasdull as tow. 

"She must be very ill, " said Philip under his breath. 

"Very, " said Martha. "She wasn't expecting you until five, sir. "

"Has the doctor told her? Does she know?"

"Yes, sir; but she doesn't mind that. She knows she's dying, andis quite resigned--quite--and quite cheerful--but she fears if youknew--hush!"

There was a movement on the bed. 

"She'll be shocked if she--and she's not ready to receive--in here, sir, " whispered Martha, and she motioned to the back of a screen thatstood between the door and the bed. 

There was a deep sigh, a sound as of the moistening of dry lips, andthen the voice of Auntie Nan--not her own familiar voice, but a sort ofvanishing echo of it. "What is the time, Martha?"

"Twenty minutes wanting five, ma'am. "

"So late! It wasn't nice of you to let me sleep so long, Martha. I'mexpecting the Governor at five. What a mercy he hasn't come earlier. Itwouldn't be right to keep him waiting, and then--bring me the sponge, girl. Moisten it first. Now the towel. The comb next. That's better. Howlifeless my hair is, though. Oil, you say? I wonder! I've never used itin my life: but at a time like this--well, just a little, then--there, that will do. Bring me a cap--the one with the pink bow in it. My faceis so pale--it will give me a little colour. That will do. Youcouldn't tell I had been ill, could you? Not very ill, anyway? Now sideeverything away. The medicines too--put them in the cupboard. So manybottles. 'How ill she must have been!' he would say. And now open thedrawer on the left, Martha, the one with the key in it, and bring methe paper on the top. Yes, the white paper. The folded one with theendorsement. Endorsement means writing on the back, Martha. Ah! I'velived all my life among lawyers. Lay it on the counterpane. The keys?Lay them beside it. No, put them behind my pillow, just at my back. Yes, there--lower, though, deeper still--that's right. Now set a chair, sothat he can sit beside me. This side of the bed--no, this side. Then thelight will be on him, and I will be able to see his face--my eyes arenot so good as they were, you know. A little farther back--not quite somuch, neither--that will do. Ah!"

There was a long breath of satisfaction, and then Auntie Nan said--

"I suppose it's----what time is it now, Martha?"

"Ten minutes wanting five, ma'am. "

"Did you tell Jane about the cutlets? He likes them with bread-crumbs, you know. I hope she won't forget to say 'Your Excellency. ' I shall hearhis voice the moment he comes into the hall. My ears are no worse, ifmy eyes are. Perhaps he won't speak, though, 'She's been so ill, 'he'll think. Martha, I think you had better open the door. Jane is soforgetful. She might say things, too. If he asks, 'How is she to-day, Martha'' you must answer quite brightly, 'Better to-day, yourExcellency. '"

There was an exclamation of pain. 

"Oh! Ugh--Oo! Oh, blessed Lord Jesus!"

"Are you sure you are well enough, ma'am? Hadn't I better tell him----"

"No, I'll be worse to-morrow, and the next day worse still. Give me adose of medicine, Martha--the morning medicine--the one that makes mecheerful. Thank you, Martha. If I feel the pain when he is here, I'llbear it as long as I can, and then I'll say, 'I'm finding myself drowsy, Philip; you had better go and lie down. ' Will you understand that, Martha?"

"Yes, ma'am, " said Martha. 

"I'm afraid we must be a little deceitful, Martha. But we can't helpthat, can we? You see he has to be installed yet, and that is always agreat excitement. If he thought I was very ill, now--_very_, veryill, you know--yes, I really think he would wish to postpone it, and Iwouldn't have that for worlds and worlds. He has always been so fondof his old auntie. Well, it's the way with these boys. I daresay peoplewonder why he has never married, being so great and so prosperous. Thatwas for my sake. He knew I should----"

Philip was breathing heavily. Auntie Nan listened. "I'm sure there'ssomebody in the hall, Martha. Is it----? Yes, it's----; Go down to himquick----"

"Yes, ma'am, " said Martha, making a noise with the screen to coverPhilip's escape on tiptoe. Then she came to him on the landing, wipingher eyes with her apron, and pretended to lead Philip back to the room. 

"My boy! my boy!" cried Auntie Nan, and she folded him in her arms. 

The transformation was wonderful. She had a look of youth now, almosta look of gaiety. "I've heard the great, great news, " she whispered, taking his hand. 

"That's only a rumour, Auntie, " said Philip. "Are you better?"

"Oh, but it will come true. Yes, yes, I'm better. I'm sure it will cometrue. And, dear heart, what a triumph! I dreamt it all the night beforeI heard of it. You were on the top of the Tynwald, and there was a greatcrowd. But come and sit down and tell me everything. So you are betteryourself? Quite strong again, dear? Oh, yes, any where, Philip-sitanywhere. Here, this chair will do--this one by my side. Ah! How wellyou look!"

She was carried away by her own gaiety. Leaning back on the pillow, but still keeping his hand in hers, she said, "Do you know, PhilipChristian, who is the happiest person in the world? I'm sure you don't, for all you're so clever. So I'll tell you. Perhaps you think it's abeautiful young wife just married to a husband who worships her. Well, you're quite, quite wrong, sir. It's an old, old lady, very, very old, and very feeble, just tottering on, and not expecting to live a greatwhile longer, but with her sons about her, grown up, and big, andstrong, and having all the world before them. That's the happiest personon earth. And I'm the next thing to it, for my boy--my own boy's boy---"

She broke off, and then, with a far-off look, she said, "I wonder willhe think I've done my duty!"

"Who?" asked Philip. 

"Your father, " she answered. 

Then she turned to the maid and said, quite gaily, "You needn't wait, Martha. His Excellency will call you when I want my medicine. Won't you, your Excellency?"

Philip could not find it in his heart to correct her again. The girlleft the room. Auntie Nan glanced at the closing door, then reached overto Philip with an air of great mystery, and whispered--

"You mustn't be shocked, Philip, or surprised, or fancy I'm very ill, orthat I'm going to die; but what do you think I've done?"

"Nay, what?"

"I've made my will! Is that very terrible?"

"You've done right, Auntie, " said Philip. 

"Yes, the High Bailiff has been up and everything is in order, everylittle thing. See, " and she lifted the paper that the maid had laid onthe counterpane. "Let me tell you. " She nodded her head as she ran overthe items. "Some little legacies first, you know. There's Martha, sucha good girl--I've left her my silk dresses. Then old Mary, the housemaidat Ballawhaine. Poor old thing! she's been down with rheumatism threeyears, and flock beds get so lumpy--I've left her my feather one. Ithought at first I should like you to have my little income. Do youknow, your old auntie is quite an old miser. I've grown so fond of mylittle money. And it seemed so sweet to think--but then you don'twant it now, Philip. It would be nothing to you, would it? I've beenthinking, though--now, what do you think I've been thinking of doingwith my little fortune?"

Philip stroked the wrinkled fingers with his other hand. 

"What's right, I'm sure, Auntie. What is it?"

"You would never guess. "--"No?"

"I've been thinking, " with sudden gravity. "Philip, there's nobody inthe world so unhappy as a poor gentlewoman who has slipped and fallen. Then this one's father, he has turned his back on her, they're tellingme, and of course she can't expect anything from her husband. I've beenthinking, now----"

"Yes?" said Philip, with his eyes down. 

"To tell you the truth, I've been thinking it would be so nice----"

And then, nervously, faltering, in a quavering voice, with many excuses, out came the great secret, the mighty strategy. Auntie Nan had willedher fortune to Kate. 

"You're an angel, Auntie, " said Philip in a thick voice. 

But he saw through her artifice. She was talking of Kate, but she wasthinking of himself. She was trying to relieve him of an embarrassment;to remove an impediment that lay in his path; to liberate hisconscience; to cover up his fault; to conceal everything. 

"And then this house, dear, " said Auntie Nan. "It's yours, but you'llnever want it. It's been a dear little harbour of refuge, but thestorm is over now. Would you--do you see any objection--perhaps youmight--could you not let the poor soul come and live here with herlittle one, after I--when all is over, I mean--and she is--eh?"

Philip could not speak. He took the wrinkled hand and drew it up to hislips. 

The old soul was beside herself with joy. "Then you're sure I've doneright? Quite sure? Lock it up in the drawer again, dearest The topone on the left. Oh, the keys? Dear me, yes; where are the keys? Howtiresome! I remember now. They're at the back of my pillow. Willyou call Martha? Or perhaps you would yourself--will you?" (veryartfully)--"you don't mind then? Yes, that's it; more this way, though, a little more--ah! My boy! my boy!"

The old dove's second strategy had succeeded also. In fumbling behindher pillow for the keys, Philip had to put his arms about her again, andshe was kissing him on the forehead and on the cheeks. 

Then came a spasm of pain. It dragged at her features, but her smilestruggled through it. She fetched a difficult breath, and said--

"And now--dear--I'm finding myself--a little drowsy--how selfish ofme--your cutlets--browned--nicely browned--breadcrumbs, you know----"

Philip fled from the room and summoned Martha. He wandered aimlesslyabout the house for hours that night. At one moment he found himselfin the blue room, Auntie Nan's workroom, so full of her familiarthings--the spinning-wheel, the frame of the sampler, the old-fashionedpiano, the scent of lavender--all the little evidences of her presence, so dainty, so orderly, so sweet A lamp was burning for the convenienceof the doctor, but there was no fire. 

The doctor came again towards ten o'clock. There was nothing to be done;nothing to be hoped; still she might live until morning, if----

At midnight Philip crept noiselessly to the bedroom. The condition wasunaltered. He was going to lie down, but wished to be awakened if therewas any change. 

It was long before he dropped off, and he seemed to have slept only amoment when there was a knocking at his door. He heard it while hewas still sleeping. The dawn had broken, the streamers of the sun wererising out of the sea. A sparrow in the garden was hacking the air withits monotonous chirp. 

Auntie Nan was far spent, yet the dragging expression of pain was gone, and a serenity almost angelic overspread her face. When she recognisedPhilip she felt for his hand, guided it to her heart, and kept it there. Only a few words did she speak, for her breath was short. She commendedher soul to God. Then, with a look of pallid sunshine, she beckonedto Philip. He stooped his ear to her lips, and she whispered, "Hush, dearest! Never tell any one, for nobody ever knew--ever dreamt--but Iloved your father--and--_God gave him to me in you. _"

The dear old dove had delivered herself of her last great secret. Philipput his lips to her cheek, iced already over the damps and chills ofdeath. Then the eyes closed, the sweet old head slid back, the lipschanged their colour, but still lay open as with a smile. Thus diedAuntie Nan, peacefully, hopefully, trustfully, almost joyfully, in thefulness of her love and of her pride. 

"O God, " thought Philip, "let me go on with my task. Give me strength towithstand the temptation of love like this. "

Her love had tempted him all his life His father had been twenty yearsdead, but she had kept his spirit alive--his aims, his ambitions, hisfears, and the lessons of his life. There lay the beginnings of hisruin, his degradation, and the first cause of his deep duplicity. Hehad recovered everything that had been lost; he had gained all thathis little world could give; and what was the worth of it? What was theprice he had paid for it? "What shall it profit a man if he gain thewhole world and lose his own soul?"

Philip put his lips to the cold forehead. "Sweet soul, forgive me! Godstrengthen me! Let me not fail at this last moment. "

XV. 

Philip did not go back to Elm Cottage. He buried Auntie Nan at the footof his father's grave. There was no room at either side, his mother'ssunken grave being on the left and the railed tomb of his grandfather onthe right. They had to remove a willow two feet nearer to the path. 

When all was over he returned home alone, and spent the afternoon ingathering up Auntie Nan's personal belongings, labelling some of themand locking them up in the blue room. The weather had been troubledfor some days. Spots had been seen on the sun. There were magneticdisturbances, and on the night before the aurora had pulsed in thenorthern sky. When the sun was near to sinking there was a brilliantlower sky to the west, with a bank of rolling cloud above it like athick thatch roof, and a shaft of golden light dipping down into thesea, as if an angel had opened a door in heaven. After the sun had gonea fiery red bar stretched across the sky, and there were low rumblingsof thunder. 

Pausing in his work to look out on the beach, Philip saw a man ridinghard on horseback. It was a messenger from Government Offices. Hedrew up at the gate. A moment later the messenger was in Philip's roomhanding him a letter. 

If anybody had seen the Deemster as he took that letter he must havethought it his death-warrant. A deadly pallor came to his face whenhe broke the seal of the envelope and drew out the contents. It was acommission from the Home Office. Philip was appointed Governor of theIsle of Man. "My punishment, my punishment!" he thought. The higherhe rose, the lower he had to fall. It was a cruel kindness, a painfuldistinction, an awful penalty. Truly the steps of this Calvary weresteep. Would he ever ascend it?

The messenger was bowing and smirking before him. "Thousandcongratulations, your Excellency!"

"Thank you, my lad. Go downstairs. They'll give you something to eat. "

A moment later Jem-y-Lord came into the room on some pretence and hoppedabout like a bird. "Yes, your Excellency--No, your Excellency--Quite so, your Excellency. "

Martha came next, and met Philip on the landing with a courageous smileand a courtesy. And the whole house, lately so dark and sad, seemed tolighten and to laugh, as when, after a sleepless night, you look, and lo! the daylight is on the blind; you listen and the birds aretwittering in their cages below the stairs. 

"_She_ will hear it too, " thought Philip. 

He wrote her two lines of a letter, the first that he had penned sincehis illness--

 "Keep up heart, dear; I will be with you soon. "

This, without signature or superscription, he put into an envelope, andaddressed. Then he went out and posted it himself. 

There was lightning as he returned. He felt as if he would like towander away in it down to Port Mooar, and round by the caves, and underthe cliffs, where the sea-birds scream. 

XVI. 

The night had fallen, and he was sitting in his room, when there wasa clamour of loud voices in the hall. Some one was calling for theDeemster. It was Nancy Joe. She was newly returned from Sulby. Somethinghad happened to Cæsar, and nobody could control him. 

"Go to him, your Honour, " she cried from the doorway. "It's onlyyourself that has power with him, and we don't know in the world what'sdoing on the man. He's got a ram's horn at him, and is going blowinground the house like the mischief, calling on the Lord to bring it down, and saying it's the walls of Jericho. "

Philip sent for a carriage, and set off for Sulby immediately. The stormhad increased by this time. Loud peals of thunder echoed in the hills. Forks of lightning licked the trunks of the trees and ran like serpentsalong the branches. As they were going by the church at Lezayre, thecoachman reached over from the box, and said, "There's something goingdoing over yonder, sir. See?"

A bright gleam lit up the dark sky in the direction they were taking. Atthe turn of the road by the "Ginger, " somebody passed them running. 

"What's yonder?" called the coachman. 

And a voice out of the darkness answered him, "The 'Fairy' is struck bylightning, and Cæsar's gone mad. "

It was the fact. While Cæsar in his mania had been blowing his ram'shorn around his public-house under the delusion that it was Jericho, thelightning had struck it. The fire was past all hope of subduing. A greathole had been burnt into the roof, and the flames were leaping throughit as through a funnel. All Sulby seemed to be on the spot. Some weredragging furniture out of the burning house; others were running withbuckets to the river and throwing water on the blazing thatch. 

But encircling everything was the figure of a man going round andround with great plunging strides, over the road, across the river, and through the mill-pond behind, blowing a horn in fierce, unearthlyblasts, and crying in a voice of triumph and mockery, first to thisworker and then to that, "No use, I tell thee. Thou can never put itout. It's fire from heaven. Didn't I say I'd bring it down?"

It was Cæsar. His eyes glittered, his mouth worked convulsively, and hischeeks were as black with the flying soot as the "colley" of the pot. 

When he saw Philip, he came up to him with a terrible smile on hisfierce black face, and, pointing to the house, he cried above the babelof voices, the roar of the thunder, and crackle of the fire, "An uncleanspirit lived in it, sir. It has been tormenting me these ten years. "

He seemed to listen and to hear something. "That's it roaring, " hecried, and then he laughed with wild delight. 

"Compose yourself, Mr. Cregeen, " said Philip, and he tried to take himby the arm. 

But Cæsar broke away, blew a terrific blast on his ram's horn, and wentstriding round the house again. When he came back the next timethere was a deep roll of thunder in the air, and he said, "It's theBallawhaine. He had the stone five years, and he used to groan so. "

Again Philip entreated him to compose himself. It was useless. Round andround the burning house he went, blowing his horn, and calling on theworkers to stop their ungodly labour, for the Lord had told him to blowdown the walls of Jericho, and he had burnt them down instead. 

The people began to be afraid of his frenzy. "They'll have to put theman in the Castle, " said one. "Or have him chained up in an outhouse, "said another. "They kept the Kirk Maug-hold lunatic fifteen years on thestraw in the gable loft, and his children in the house grew up to be menand women. " "It's the girl that's doing on Cæsar. Shame on the daughtersthat bring ruin to their old fathers!"

Still Cæsar went careering round the fire, blowing his ram's horn andcrying, "No use! It's the Lord God!"

The more the fire blazed, the more it resisted the efforts of the peopleto subdue it, the more fierce and unearthly were Cæsar's blasts and themore triumphant his cries. 

At last Grannie stepped out and stopped him. "Come home, father, " shewhimpered. He looked at her with bewildered eyes, then he looked at theburning house, and he seemed to recover himself in a moment. 

"Come home, bogh, " said Grannie tenderly. 

"I've got no home, " said Cæsar in a helpless way. "And I've got nomoney. The fire has taken all. "

"No matter, father, " said Grannie. "We had nothing when we began; we'llbegin again. "

Then Cæsar fell to mumbling texts of Scripture, and Grannie to soothinghim after her simple fashion. 

"'My soul is passing through deep waters. I am feeble and sore broken. Save me, O God, for the waters are come in unto my soul, I sink in deepmire, where there is no standing. '"

"Aw, no Cæsar, we're on the road now. It's dry enough here, anyway. "

"'Many bulls have compassed me; great bulls of Bashan have beset meround. Save me from the lion's mouth; for Thou hast heard me from thehorns of the unicorn. '"

"Never mind the lion and the unicorn, father, but come and we'll changethy wet trousers. "

"'Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall bewhiter than snow. '"

"Aw, yes, we'll wash thee enough when we get to Ramsey. Come, then, bogh. "

He had dropped his ram's horn somewhere, and she took him by the hand. Then he suffered himself to be led away, and the two old children wentoff into the darkness. 

XVII. 

There was a letter waiting for Philip at home. It was from the Clerk ofthe Rolls. Only a few lines scribbled on the back of a draft deposition, telling him the petition for divorce had been heard that day withinclosed doors. The application had been granted, and all was settled andcomfortable. 

"I don't want to hurt your already much wounded feelings, Christian, "wrote the Clerk of the Rolls, "or to add anything to your responsibilitywhen you come to make provision for the woman, but I must say she hasgiven up for your sake a deuced good honest fellow. "

"I know it, " said Philip aloud. 

"When I told him that all was over, and that his erring wife wouldtrouble him no more, I thought he was going to burst out crying. "

But Philip had no time yet to think of Pete. All his heart was withKate. She would receive the official intimation of the divorce, and itwould fall on her in her prison like a blow. She would think of herself, with all the world against her, and of him with all the world at hisfeet. He wanted to run to her, to pluck her up in his arms, to kiss heron the lips, and say, "Mine, mine at last!" His wife--her husband--allforgiven--all forgotten!

Philip spent the rest of the night in writing a letter to Kate. He toldher he could not live without her; that now for the first time she washis, and he was hers, and they were one; that their love was re-born, and that he would spend the future in atoning for the wrongs he hadinflicted upon her in the past. Then he dropped to the sheer babble ofaffection and poured out his heart to her--all the babydom of love, thefoolish prattle, the tender nonsense. What matter that he was Governornow, and the first man in the island? He forgot all about it. Whatmatter that he was writing to a fallen woman in prison? He onlyremembered it to forget himself the more. 

"Just a little longer, my love, just a little longer. I am coming toyou, I am coming. Older, perhaps, perhaps sadder, and a boy no more, buthopeful still, and ready to face whatever fate befall, with her I lovebeside me. "

Next day Jem-y-Lord took this letter to Castle Rushen and brought backan answer. It was one line only--"My darling! At last! At last! Oh, Philip! Philip! _But what about our child?_"

XVIII. 

The proclamation of Philip's appointment as Governor of the Isle ofMan had been read in the churches, and nailed up on the doors of theCourt-houses, and the Clerk of the Rolls was pushing on the arrangementsfor the installation. 

"Let it be on the Tuesday of Easter week, " he wrote, "and of course atCastle Rushen. The retiring Governor is ready to return for that day todeliver up his seals of office and to receive your commission. "

"P. S. --Private. And if you think that soft-voiced girl has been longenough 'At Her Majesty's pleasure, ' I will release her. Not that sheis taking any harm at all, but we had better get these little accountssquared off before your great day comes. Meantime you may wish toprovide for her future. Be liberal, Christian; you can afford to treather liberally. But what am I saying? Don't I know that you will beridiculously over-generous?"

Philip answered this letter promptly. "The Tuesday of Easter week willdo as well as any other day. As to the lady, let her stay where sheis until the morning of the ceremony, when I will myself settleeverything. "

Philip's correspondence was now plentiful, and he had enough workto cope with it The four towns of the island vied with each other inefforts to show him honour. Douglas, as the scene of his career, wishedto entertain him at a banquet; Ramsey, as his birthplace, wanted tofollow him in procession. He declined all invitations. 

"I am in mourning, " he wrote. "And besides, I am not well. "

"Ah! no, " he thought, "nobody shall reproach me when the times comes. "

There was no pause, no pity, no relenting rest in the world's kindness. It began to take shapes of almost fiendish cruelty in his mind, as ifthe devil's own laughter was behind it. 

He inquired about Pete. Hardly anybody knew anything; hardly anybodycared. The spendthrift had come down to his last shilling, and sold upthe remainder of his furniture. The broker was to empty the house onEaster Tuesday. That was all. Not a word about the divorce. The poorneglected victim, forgotten in the turmoil of his wrongdoer's glory, had that last strength of a strong man--the strength to be silent and toforgive. 

Philip asked about the child. She was still at Elm Cottage in the careof the woman with the upturned nose and the shrill voice. Every nighthe devised plans for getting possession of Kate's little one, andevery morning he abandoned them, as difficult or cruel or likely to bespurned. 

On Easter Monday he was busy in his room at Ballure, with a mountedmessenger riding constantly between his gate and Government offices. Hehad spent the morning on two important letters. Both were to the HomeSecretary. One was sealed with his seal as Deemster; the other waswritten on the official paper of Government House. He was instructingthe messenger to register these letters when, through the open door, he heard a formidable voice in the hall. It was Pete's voice. A momentafterwards Jem-y-Lord came up with a startled face. 

"He's here himself, your Excellency. Whatever _am_ I to do with him?"

"Bring him up, " said Philip. 

Jem began to stammer. "But--but--and then the Bishop may be here anyminute. "

"Ask the Bishop to wait in the room below. "

Pete was heard coming upstairs. "Aisy all, aisy! Stoop your lil head, bogh. That's the ticket!"

Philip had not spoken to Pete since the night of the drinking of thebrandy and water in the bedroom. He could not help it--his hand shook. There would be a painful scene. 

"Stoop again, darling. There you are. "

And then Pete was in the room. He was carrying the child on oneshoulder; they were both in their best clothes. Pete looked older andsomewhat thinner; the tan of his cheeks was fretted out in pale patchesunder the eyes, which were nevertheless bright. He had the face of aman who had fought a brave fight with life and been beaten, yet bore theworld no grudge. Jem-y-Lord and the messenger were gone from the room ina moment, and the door was closed. 

"What d'ye think of that, Phil? Isn't she a lil beauty?"

Pete was dancing the child on his knee and looking sideways down at itwith eyes of rapture. 

"She's as sweet as an angel, " said Philip in a low tone. 

"Isn't she now?" said Pete, and then he rattled on as if he were thehappiest man alive. "You've been wanting something like this yourselfthis long time, Phil. 'Deed you have, though. It would be diverting youwonderful. Ter'ble the fun there is in babies. Talk about play-actorers!They're only funeral mutes where babies come. Bittending this andbittending that--it's mortal amusing they are. You'd be getting up fromyour books, tired shocking, and ready for a bit of fun, and going to thestair-head and shouting down, 'Where's my lil woman?' Then up she'd becoming, step by step, houlding on to the bannisters, dot and carry one. And my gracious, the dust there'd be here in the study! You down onthe carpet on all fours, and the lil one straddled across your back andslipping down to your neck. Same for all the world as the man in thepicture with the world atop of his shoulders. And your own lil worldwould be up there, too, laughing and crowing mortal. And then at night, Phil, at night--getting up from your summonses and your warrantees, andgoing creeping to the lil one's room tippie-toe, tippie-toe, and 'Isshe sleeping comfor'bly?' thinks you; and listening at the crack of thedoor, and hearing her breathing, and slipping in to look, and everythingquiet, and the red fire on her lil face, and 'Grod bless her, thedarling!' says you, and then back to your desk content. Aw, you'll haveto be having a lil one of your own one of these days, Phil. "

"He has come to say something, " thought Philip. 

The child wriggled off Pete's knee and began to creep about the floor. Philip tried to command himself and to talk easily. 

"And how have you been yourself, Pete?" he asked. 

"Well, " said Pete, meddling with his hair, "only middling, somehow. "He looked down at the carpet, and faltered, "You'll be wondering atme, Phil, but, you see "--he hesitated--"not to tell you a word of alie----" then, with a rush, "I'm going foreign again; that's the fact. "

"Again?"

"Well, I am, " said Pete, looking ashamed. "Yes, truth enough, that'swhat I'm thinking of doing. You see, " with a persuasive air, "when aman's bitten by travel it's like the hydrophobia ezactly, he can't restno time in one bed at all. Must be running here and running there--andrunning reg'lar. It's the way with me, anyway. Used to think the ouldisland would be big enough for the rest of my days. But, no! I'm longingshocking for the mines again, and the compound, and the niggers, andthe wild life out yonder. 'The sea's calling me, ' you know. " And then helaughed. 

Philip understood him--Pete meant to take himself out of the way. "Shallyou stay long?" he faltered. 

"Well, yes, I was thinking so, " said Pete. "You see, the stuff isn'tpanning out now same as it used to, and fortunes aren't made as fastas they were in my time. Not that I'm wanting a fortune, neither--isit likely now? But, still and for all--well, I'll be away a good spell, anyway. "

Philip tried to ask if he intended to go soon. 

"To-morrow, sir, by the packet to Liverpool, for the sailing onWednesday. I've been going the rounds saying 'goodbye' to the ouldchums--Jonaique, and John the Widow, and Niplightly, and Kelly thepostman. Not much heart at some of them; just a bit of a somethingstowed away in their giblets; but it isn't right to be expecting toomuch at all. This is the only one that doesn't seem willing to part withme. "

Pete's dog had followed him into the room, and was sitting soberly bythe side of his chair. "There's no shaking him off, poor ould chap. "

The dog got up and wagged his stump. 

"Well, we've tramped the world together, haven't we, Dempster? Hedoesn't seem tired of me yet neither. " Pete's face lengthened. "Butthere's Grannie, now. The ould angel is going about like a bit of athunder-cloud, and doesn't know in the world whether to burst on me ornot. Thinks I've been cruel, seemingly. I can't be explaining to herneither. Maybe you'll set it right for me when I'm gone, sir. It's youfor a job like that, you know. Don't want her to be thinking hard of me, poor ould thing. "

Pete whistled at the child, and halloed to it, and then, in a lowertone, he continued, "Not been to Castletown, sir. Got as far asBallasalla, and saw the castle tower. Then my heart was losing me, andI turned back. You'll say good-bye for me, Phil Tell her I forgave--no, not that, though. Say I left her my love--that won't do neither. _You'll_ know best what to say when the time comes, Phil, so I lave itwith you. Maybe you'll tell her I went away cheerful and content, and, well, happy--why not? No harm in saying that at all. Not breaking myheart, anyway, for when a man's a man--H'm!" clearing his throat, "I'mbad dreadful these days wanting a smook in the mornings. May I smookhere? I may? You're good, too. "

He cut his tobacco with his discoloured knife, rolled it, charged hispipe, and lit it. 

"Sorry to be going away just before your own great day, Phil. I'll getthe skipper to fire a round as we're steaming by Castletown, and ifthere's a band aboord I'll tip them a trifle to play 'Myle Charaine. 'That'll spake to you like the blackbird's whistle, as the saying is. Looks like deserting you, though. But, chut! it would be no surpriseto me at all. I've seen it coming these years and years. 'You'll bethe first Manxman living, ' says I the day I sailed before. You've notdeceaved me neither. D'ye remember the morning on the quay, and the oathbetween the pair of us? Me swearing you same as a high bailiff--nothingand nobody to come between us--d'ye mind it, Phil? And nothing has, andnothing shall. "

He puffed at his pipe, and said significantly, "You'll be gettingmarried soon. Aw, you will, I know you will, I'm sarten sure you will. "

Philip could not look into his face. He felt little and mean. 

"You're a wise man, sir, and a great man, but if a plain common chap maygive you a bit of advice--aw, but you'll be losing no time, though, I'll not be here myself to see it. I'll be on the water, maybe, with thewaves washing agen the gun'ale, and the wind rattling in the rigging, and the ship burrowing into the darkness of the sea. But I'll beknowing it's morning at home, and the sun shining, and a sort of a warmquietness everywhere, and you and her at the ould church together. "

The pipe was puffing audibly. 

"Tell her I lave her my blessing. Tell her--but the way I'm smooking, it's shocking. Your curtains will be smelling thick twist for acentury. "

Philip's moist eyes were following the child along the floor. 

"What about the little one?" he asked with difficulty. 

"Ah I tell you the truth, Phil, that's the for I came. Well, mostly, anyway. You see, a child isn't fit for a compound ezactly. Not butthey're thinking diamonds of a lil thing out there, specially if it's agirl. But still and for all, with niggers about and chaps as rough as athornbush and no manners to spake of----"

Philip interrupted eagerly--"Will you leave her with Grannie!"

"Well, no, that wasn't what I was thinking. Grannie's a bit ould gettingand she's had her whack. Wanting aisement in her ould days, anyway. Then she'll be knocking under before the lil one's up--that's only to beexpected. No, I was thinking--what d'ye think I was thinking now?"

"What?" said Philip with quick-coming breath. He did not raise his head. 

"I was thinking--well, yes, I was, then--it's a fact, though--I wasthinking maybe yourself, now----"

"Pete!"

Philip had started up and grasped Pete by the hand, but he could say nomore, he felt crushed by Pete's magnanimity. And Pete went on as ifhe were asking a great favour. "'She's been your heart's blood to you, Pete, ' thinks I to my-. Self, 'and there isn't nobody but himself youcould trust her with--nobody else you would give her up to. He'll loveher, '. Thinks I; 'he'll cherish her; he'll rear her as if she was hisown; he'll be same thing as a father itself to her'----"

Philip was struggling to keep up. 

"I've been laving something for her too, " said Pete. 

"No, no!"

"Yes, though, one of the first Manx estates going. Cæsar had the deeds, but I've been taking them to the High Bailiff, and doing everythingregular. When I'm gone, sir----"

Philip tried to protest. 

"Aw, but a man can lave what he likes to his own, sir, can't he?"

Philip was silent. He could say nothing. The make-believe was to be keptup to the last tragic moment. 

"And out yonder, lying on my hunk in the sheds--good mattresses andthick blankets, Phil, nothing to complain of at all--I'll be watchingher growing up, year by year, same as if she was under my eye constant. 'She's in pinafores now' thinks I. 'Now she's in long frocks, and isdoing up her hair. ' 'She's as straight as an osier now, and red as arose, and the best looking girl in the island, and the spitting pictureof what her mother used to be. ' Aw, I'll be seeing her in my mind's eye, sir, plainer nor any potegraph. "

Pete puffed furiously at his pipe. "And the mother, I'll be seeingherself, too. A woman every inch of her, God bless her. Wherever there'sa poor girl lying in her shame she'll be there, I'll go bail on that. And yourself--I'll be seeing yourself, sir, whiter, maybe, and the sungoing down on you, but strong for all. And when any poor fellow has hada knock-down blow, and the world is darkening round him, he'll be comingto you for light and for strength, and you'll be houlding out the righthand to him, because you're knowing yourself what it is to fall and getup again, and because you're a man, and Grod has made friends with you. "

Pete rammed his thumb into his pipe, and stuffed it, still smoking, intohis waistcoat pocket. "Chut!" he said huskily. "The talk a man'll beputting out when he's going away foreign! All for poethry then, orsomething of that spacious. H'm! h'm!" clearing his throat, "must begiving up the pipe, though. Not much worth for the voice at all. "

Philip could not speak. The strength and grandeur of the man overwhelmedhim. It cut him to the heart that Pete could never see, could neverhear, how he would wash away his shame. 

The child had crawled across the room to an open cabinet that stood inone corner, and there possessed herself of a shell, which she was makingshow of holding to her ear. 

"Well, did you ever?" cried Pete. "Look at that child now. She's knowingit's a shell. 'Deed she is, though. Aw, crawling reg'lar, sir, morningto night. Would you like to see the prettiest sight in the world, Phil?"He went down on his knees and held out his arms. "Come here, you lilsandpiper. Fix that chair a piece nearer, sir--that's the ticket. Goodthing Nancy isn't here. She'd be on to us like the mischief. Wonderfulhandy with babies, though, and if anybody was wanting a nurse now--astepmother's breath is cold--but Nancy! My gough, you daren't look overthe hedge at her lammie but she's shouting fit for an earth wake. Standnice, now, Kitty, stand nice, bogh! The woman's about right, too--thelil one's legs are like bits of qualebone. 'Come, now, bogh, come?"

Pete put the child to stand with its back to the chair, and then leanedtowards it with his arms outspread. The child staggered a step inthe sea of one yard's space that lay between, looked back at theirrecoverable chair, looked down on the distant ground, and then plungedforward with a nervous laugh, and fell into Pete's arms. 

"Bravo! Wasn't that nice, Phil? Ever see anything prettier than achild's first step? Again, Kitty, bogh! But go to your _new_ father thistime. Aisy, now, aisy!" (in a thick voice). "Grive me a kiss first!"(with a choking gurgle). "One more, darling!" (with a broken laugh). "Now face the _other_ way. One--two--are you ready, Phil?"

Phil held out his long white trembling hands. 

"Yes, " with a smothered sob. 

"Three--four--and away!"

The child's fingers slipped into Philip's palm; there was anotherhalt, another plunge, another nervous laugh, and then the child wasin Philip's arms, his head was over it, and he was clasping it to hisheart. 

After a moment, Philip, without raising his eyes, said, "Pete!"

But Pete had stolen softly from the room. 

"Pete! where are you?"

Where was he? He was on the road outside, crying like a boy--no, like aman--at thought of the happiness he had left upstairs. 

XIX. 

The town of Peel was in a great commotion that night. It was the nightof St. Patrick's Day, and the mackerel fleet were leaving for Kinsale. A hundred and fifty boats lay in the harbour, each with a light in itsbinnacle, a fire in its cabin, smoke coming from its stove-pipe, andits sails half-set. The sea was fresh; there was a smart breeze from thenorthwest, and the air was full of the brine. At the turn of the tidethe boats began to drop down the harbour. Then there was a rush of womenand children and old men to the end of the pier. Mothers were seeingtheir sons off, women their husbands, children their fathers, girlstheir boys--all full of fun and laughter and joyful cries. 

One of the girls remembered that the men were leaving the island beforethe installation of the new Governor. Straightway they started a game ofmake-believe--the make-believe of electing the Governor for themselves. 

"Who are you voting for, Mr. Quayle?"--"Aw, Dempster Christian, ofcoorse. "--"Throw us your rope, then, and we'll give you a pull. "--"Heaveoh, girls. " And the rope would be whipped round a mooring-post on thequay, twenty girls would seize it, and the boat would go slipping pastthe pier, round the castle rocks, and then away before the north-westerlike a gull. 

"Good luck, Harry!"--"Whips of money coming home, Jem!"--"Write us aletter--mind you write, now Î "--"Goodnight, father!"

No crying yet, no sign of tears--nothing but fresh young faces, brighteyes, and peals of laughter, as one by one the boats slid out into thefresh, green water of the bay, and the wind took them, and they shotinto the night. Even the dogs on the quay frisked about, and barked asif they were going crazy with delight. 

In the midst of this happy scene, a man, wearing a monkey-jacket and awide-brimmed soft hat, came up to the harbour with a little misshapendog at his heels. He stood for a moment as if bewildered by the strangemidnight spectacle before him. Then he walked through the throng ofyoung people, and listened awhile to their talk and laughter. No onespoke to him, and he spoke to no one. His dog followed with its nose athis ankles. If some other dog, in youthful frolic, frisked and barkedabout it, it snarled and snapped, and then croodled down at his master'sfeet and looked ashamed. 

"Dempster, Dempster, getting a bit ould, eh?" said the man. 

After a little while he went quietly away. Nobody missed him; nobody hadobserved him. He had gone back to the town. At a baker's shop, whichwas still open for the convenience of the departing fleet, he boughta seaman's biscuit. With this he returned to the harbour by way of theshore. At the slip by the Rocket House he went down to the beach andsearched among the shingle until he found a stone like a dumb-bell, large at the ends and narrow in the middle. Then he went back to thequay. The dog followed him and watched him. 

The last of the boats was out in the bay by this time. She could be seenquite plainly in the moonlight, with the green blade of a wave breakingon her quarter. Somebody was carrying a light on her deck, and the giantshadow of a man's figure was cast up on the new lugsail. There wereshouts and answers across the splashing water. Then a fresh young voiceon the boat began to sing "Lovely Mona, fare thee well. " The women tookit up, and the two companies sang it in turns, verse by verse, the womenon the quay and the men on the boat, with the sea growing wider betweenthem. 

An old fisherman on the skirts of the crowd had a little girl on hisshoulder. 

"You'll not be going to Kinsale this time, mate?" said a voice behindhim. 

"Aw, no, sir. I've seen the day, though. Thirty years I was going, andbetter. But I'm done now. "

"Well, that's the way, you see. It's the turn of the young ones now. Let them sing, God bless them! We're not going to fret, though, are we?There's one thing we can always do--we can always remember, and that'ssome constilation, isn't it. "

"I'm doing it reg'lar. " said the old fisherman. 

"After all, it's been a good thing to live, and when a man's time comesit'll not be such a darned bad thing to die neither. Don't you houldwith me there, mate?"

"I do, sir, I do. "

The last boat had rounded the castle rock, and its topsail haddiminished and disappeared. On the quay the song had ended, and thewomen and children were turning their faces with a shade of sadnesstowards the town. 

"Well, " with a deep universal inspiration, "wasn't it beautiful?"--"Wasn't it?"--"Then what are you crying about?"

The girls laughed at each other with wet eyes, and went off withspringless steps. The mothers picked up their children and carried themhome whimpering; and the old men went a way with drooping heads andshambling feet. 

When all was gone, and the harbour-master had taken his last look round, the man with the dog went to the end of the empty quay, and sat on themooring post that had served for the running of the ropes. All was quietenough now. The voices, the singing, the laughter were lost. There wasno sound but the gurgle of the ebbing tide, which was racing out withthe river's flow between the pier and the castle rock. 

The man looked at his dog, stooped to it, gave it the biscuit, andpetted it and stroked it while it munched its supper. "Dempster, bogh!Dempster! Getting ould, eh? Travelled far together, haven't we? Tired abit, aren't you? Couldn't go through another rough journey, anyway. Hardto part, though, Machree! Machree!"

He took the stone out of his pocket, tied it to one end of the string, made a noose on the ether end, slipped it about the dog's neck, andwithout warning, picked up the dog and stone at once, and dropped themover the pier. The old creature gave a piteous cry as it descended;there was a splash, and then--the racing of the water past the pier. 

The man had turned away quickly, and was going heavily along the quay. 

XX. 

It had been a night of pain to Philip. All the world seemed to beconspiring to hold him back from what he had to do. "Thou shalt not"was the legend that appeared to be written everywhere. Four personshad learnt his secret, and all four seemed to call upon him to hide it. First, the Clerk of the Rolls, who had heard the divorce proceedingswithin closed doors; next Pete, who might have clamoured the scandalon all hands, and plucked him down from his place, but had chosen to besilent and to slip away unseen; then Cæsar, whose awful self-deceptionwas an assurance of his secrecy; and, finally. Auntie Nan, whoseprovision for Kate's material welfare had been intended to prevent thenecessity for revelation. All these had seemed to say to him, whetherfrom affection or from fear, "Hold your peace. Say nothing. The past isthe past; it is dead; it does not exist. Go on with your career. It isonly beginning. What right have you to break it up? The island looks toyou, waits for you. Step forward and be strong. "

Thank God, it was too late to be moved by that temptation. Too late tobe bought by that bribe. Already he had taken the irrevocable course, hehad made the irrevocable step. He could not now go back. 

But the awful penalty of the island's undeceiving! The pain of thatmoment when everybody would learn that he had deceived the whole world!He was a sham--a whited sepulchre. Every step he had gone up in hisquick ascent had been over the body of some one who had loved him toowell. First Kate, who had been the victim of the Deemstership, and nowPete, who was paying the price that made him Governor. 

He could see the darkened looks of the proud; he could hear theexecration of the disappointed; he could feel the tears of thetrue-hearted at the downfall of a life that had looked so fair. In thefrenzy of that last hour of trial, it seemed as if he was contending, not with man and the world, but with the devil, who was using both tomake this bitter irony of his position--who was bribing him with worldlyglory that he might damn his soul forever. 

And therein lay a temptation that sat closer at his side--the temptationto turn his face and fly away. It was midnight. The moon was shining onthe boundless plain of the sea. He was in the slack water of the soul, when the ebb is spent, before the tide has begun to flow. Oh, to leaveeverything behind--the shame and the glory together!

It was the moment when the girls on Peel Quay were pulling the rope forthe men on the boats who were ready to vote for Christian. 

The pains of sleep were yet greater. He thought he was in Castletown, skulking under the walls of the castle. With a look up towardsParliament House and down to the harbour, he fumbled his private keyinto the lock of the side entrance to the council chamber. Theold caretaker heard him creep-down the long corridor, and she cameclattering out with a candle, shaded behind her hand. "Something I'veforgotten, " he said. "Pardon, your Honour, " and then a deep courtesy. 

He opened noiselessly the little door leading from the council chamberto the keep, but in the dark shadow of the steps the turnkey challengedhim. "Who's there? Stop!"--"Hush!"--"The Deemster! Beg your Honour'spardon. "--"Show me the female wards. "--"This way your Honour. "--"Hercell. " "Here, your Honour. "--"The key; your lantern. Now go back to theguard-room. " He was with Kate. "My love, my love!"--"My darling!"--"Come, let us fly away from the island. I cannot face it. I thought Icould, but I cannot. I've got the child too. Come!" And then Kate--"Iwould go anywhere with you, Philip, anywhere, anywhere. I only want yourlove. But is this worthy of a man like you? Leave me. We have fallen toolow to drop into a pit like that. Away with you! Go!" And he slunk outof the cell, before the wrathful love that would save him from himself. He, the Deemster, the Governor, had slunk out like a dog. 

It was only a dream. When he awoke, the birds were singing and the daywas blue over the sea. The temptation was past; it was under his feet. He could hesitate no longer; his cup was brimming over; he would drinkit to the dregs. 

Jem-y-Lord came with his mouth full of news. The town was decoratedwith bunting. There was to be a general holiday. A grand stand had beenerected on the green in front of the Court-house. The people were notgoing to be deterred by the Deemster's refusals. He who shrank fromhonours was the more worthy of being honoured. They intended to presenttheir new Governor with an address. 

"Let them--let them, " said Philip. 

Jem looked up inquiringly. His master's face had a strange expression. 

"Shall I drive you to-day, your Excellency?"

"Yes, my lad. It may be for the last time, Jemmy. "

What was amiss with the Governor? Had the excitement proved too much forhim?

XXI. 

It was a perfect morning, soft and fresh, and sweet with the odours andthe colours of spring. New gorse flashed from the hedges, the violetspeeped from the banks; over the freshening green of the fields the younglambs sported, and the lark sang in the thin blue air. 

The town, as they dipped into it, was full of life. At the turn of theCourt-house the crowd was densest. A policeman raised his hand in frontof the horses and Jem-y-Lord drew up. Then the High Bailiff stepped tothe gate and read an address. It mentioned Iron Christian, calling him"The Great Deemster"; the town took pride to itself that the first ManxGovernor of Man was born in Ramsey. 

Philip answered briefly, confining himself to an expression of thanks;there was great cheering and then the carriage moved on. The journeythereafter was one long triumphal passage. At Sulby Street, and atBallaugh Street, there were flags and throngs of people. From time totime other carriages joined them, falling into line behind. The Bishopwas waiting at Bishop's Court, and place was made for his carriageimmediately after the carriage of the Governor. 

At Tynwald there was a sweet and beautiful spectacle. The children ofSt. John's were seated on the four rounds of the mount, boys and girlsin alternate rows, and from that spot, sacred to the memory of theirforefathers for a thousand years, they sang the National Anthem asPhilip passed on the road. 

The unhappy man lay back in his seat. His eyes filled, his throat rose. "Oh, for what might have been!"

Under Harry Delany's tree a company of fishermen were waiting with aletter. It was from their mates at Kinsale. They could not be at homethat day, but their hearts were there. Every boat would fly her flag atthe masthead, and at twelve o'clock noon every Manx fisherman on Irishwaters would raise a cheer. If the Irishmen asked them what they meantby that, they would answer and say, "It's for the fisherman's friend, Governor Philip Christian. "

The unhappy man was no longer in pain. His agony was beyond that. A sortof divine madness had taken possession of him. He was putting the worldand the prince of the world behind his back. All this worldly gloryand human gratitude was but the temptation of Satan. With God's help hewould not succumb. He would resist. He would triumph over everything. 

Jem-y-Lord twisted on the box-seat. "See, your Excellency! Listen!"

The flags of Castletown were visible on the Eagle Tower of the castle. Then there was a multitudinous murmur. Finally a great shout. "Now, boys! Three times three! Hip, hip, hurrah!"

At the entrance to the town an evergreen arch had been erected. It borean inscription in Manx: "_Dooiney Vannin, lhiat myr hoilloo_"--"Man ofMan, success as thou deservest. "

The carriage had slacked down to a walk. 

"Drive quicker, " cried Philip. 

"The streets are crowded, your Excellency, " said Jem-y-Lord. 

Flags were flying from every window, from every roof, from everylamp-post. The people ran by the carriage cheering. Their shout was adeafening uproar. 

Philip could not respond. "_She_ will hear it, " he thought. His headdropped. He was picturing Kate in her cell with the clamour of hiswelcome coming muffled through the walls. 

They took the road by the harbour. Suddenly the carriage stopped. Themen were taking the horses out of the shafts. "No, no, " cried Philip. 

He had an impulse to alight, but the carriage was moving again in amoment. "It is the last of my punishment, " he thought, and again fellback. Then the shouting and the laughter ran along the quay with thecrackle and roar of a fire. 

A regiment of soldiers lined the way from the drawbridge to theporlcullis. As the carriage drew up, they presented arms in royalsalute. At the same moment the band of the regiment inside the Keepplayed "God save the Queen. "

The High Bailiff of the town opened the carriage-door and presented anaddress. It welcomed the new Governor to the ancient castle wherein hispredecessors had been installed, and took fresh assurance of devotionto the Crown from the circumstance that one of their own countrymenhad been thought worthy to represent it. No Manxman had ever been sohonoured in that island before since the days of the new Governor'sown great kinsman, familiarly and affectionately known to all Manxmenthrough two centuries as Illiam Dhone (Brown William). 

Philip replied in few words, the cheering broke out afresh, the bandplayed again, and they entered the castle by the long corridor that ledto the council chamber. 

In an anteroom the officials were waiting. They were all elderly men andold men, who had seen long and honourable service, but they showed nojealousy. The Clerk of the Rolls received bis former pupil with ashout wherein personal pride struggled with respect, and affection withhumility. Then the Attorney-General welcomed him in the name of the Bar, as head of the Judicature, as well as head of the Legislature, takingjoy in the fact that one of their own profession had been elevated tothe highest office in the Isle of Man; glancing at his descent froman historic Manx line, at his brief but distinguished career as judge, which had revived the best traditions of judicial wisdom and eloquence, and finally wishing him long life and strength for the fulfilment of thenoble promise of his young and spotless manhood. 

"Mr. Attorney-General, " said Philip, "I will not accept yourcongratulations, much as it would rejoice my heart to do so. It wouldonly be another grief to me if you were to repent, as too soon you may, the generous warmth of your reception. "

There were puzzled looks, but the sage counsellors could not receive theright impression; they could only understand the reply in the sense thatagreed with their present feelings. "It is beautiful, " they whispered, "when a young man of real gifts is genuinely modest. "

"Excuse me, gentlemen, " said Philip, "I must go into my room. "

The Clerk of the Rolls followed him, saying--

"Ah! poor Tom Christian would have been a proud man this day--prouderthan if the honour had been his own--ten thousand thousand times. "

"Have mercy, have mercy, and leave me alone, " said Philip. 

"I didn't mean to offend you, Christian, " said the Clerk. 

Philip put one hand affectionately on his shoulder. The eyes of therobustious fellow began to blink, and he returned to his colleagues. 

There was a confused murmur beyond the farther wall of the room. Itwas the room kept for the Deemster when he held court in the councilchamber. One of its two doors communicated with the bench. As usual, a constable kept this door. The man loosened his chain and removed hishelmet. His head was grey. 

"Is the Court-house full?" asked Philip. 

The constable put his eye to the eye-hole. "Crowded, your Excellency. 

"Keep the passages clear. "--"Yes, your Excellency. "

"Is the Clerk of the Court present?"--"He is, your Excellency. "

"And the jailor?"--"Downstairs, your Excellency. "

"Tell both they will be wanted. "

The constable turned the key of the door and left the room. Jem-y-Lordcame puffing and perspiring. 

"The ex-Governor is coming over by the green, sir. He'll be here in amoment. "

"My wig and gown, Jemmy, " said Philip. 

"Deemster's wig, your Excellency?"--"Yes. "

"Last time you'll wear it, sir. "

"The last, indeed, my lad. "

There was a clash of steel outside, followed by the beat of drum. 

"He's here, " said Jem-y-Lord. 

Philip listened. The rattling noise came to him through opening doorsand reverberating corridors like the trampling of a wave to a manimprisoned in a cave. 

"She'll hear it, too. " That thought was with him constantly. In hismind's eye he was seeing Kate, crouching in the fire-seat of the palaceroom that was now her prison, and covering her ears to deaden the joyoussounds that broke the usual silence of the gloomy walls. 

Jem-y-Lord was at the eye-hole of the door. "He's coming on to thebench, sir. The gentlemen of the council are following him, and theCourt-house is full of ladies. "

Philip was pacing to and fro like a man in violent agitation. At theother side of the wall the confused murmur had risen to a sharp crackleof many voices. 

The constable came back with the Clerk of the Court and the jailor. 

"Everything ready, your Excellency, " said the Clerk of the Court. 

The constable turned the key of the door, and laid his hand on the knob. 

"One moment--give me a moment, " said Philip. 

He was going through the last throes of his temptation. Something wasasking him, as if in tones of indignation, what right he had to bringpeople there to make fools of them. And something was laughing as if inmockery at the theatrical device he had chosen for gathering togetherthe people of rank and station, and then dismissing them like naughtyschool-children. 

This idea clamoured loud in wild derision, telling him that he wasposing, that he was making a market of his misfortune, that he wasan actor, and that whatever the effect of the scene he was about toperform, it was unnecessary and must be contemptible. "You talk ofyour shame and humiliation--no atonement can wipe it out. You came hereprating to yourself of blotting out the past--no act of man can do so. Vain, vain, and idle as well as vain! Mere mummery and display, and ablow to the dignity of justice!"

Under the weight of such torment the thought came to him that he shouldgo through the ceremony after all, that he should do as the peopleexpected, that he should accept the Governorship, and then defy thesocial ostracism of the island by making Kate his wife. "It's not yettoo late, " said the tempter. 

Philip stopped in his walk and remembered the two letters of yesterday. "Thank God! it _is_ too late, " he said. 

He had spoken the words aloud, and the officers in attendance glanced upat him. Jem-y-Lord was behind, trembling and biting his lip. 

It was indeed too late for that temptation. And then the vanity of it, the cruelty and insufficiency of it! He had been a servant of the worldlong enough. From this day forth he meant to be its master. No matterif all the devils of hell should laugh at him! He was going through withhis purpose. There was only one condition on which he could live in theworld--that he should renounce it. There was only one way of renouncingthe world--to return its wages and strip off its livery. His sin wasnot only against Kate, against Pete; it was against the island, and theisland must set him free. 

Philip approached the door, slackened his pace with an air ofuncertainty; at one step from the constable he stopped. He was breathingnoisily. If the officers had observed him at that moment they must havethought he looked like a man going to execution. But the constable gazedbefore him with a sombre expression, held his helmet in one hand, andthe knob of the door in the other. 

"Now, " said Philip, with a long inspiration. 

There was a flash of faces, a waft of perfume, a flutter ofpocket-handkerchiefs, and a deafening reverberation. Philip was in theCourt-house. 

XXII. 

It was remarked that his face was fearfully worn, and that it looked thewhiter for the white wig above it and the black gown beneath. Hislarge eyes flamed as with fire. "The sword too keen for the scabbard, "whispered somebody. 

There is a kind of aloofness in strong men at great moments. Nobodyapproaches them. They move onward of themselves, and stand or fallalone. Everybody in court rose as Philip entered, but no one offered hishand. Even the ex-Governor only bowed from the Governor's seat under thecanopy. 

Philip took his customary place as Deemster. He was then at the rightof the Governor, the Bishop being on the left. Behind the bishop sat theAttorney-General, and behind Philip the Clerk of the Rolls. The cheersthat had greeted Philip on his entrance ended with the clapping ofhands, and died off like a wave falling back from the shingle. Then herose and turned to the Governor. 

"I do not know if you are aware, your Excellency, that this isDeemster's Court-day?"

The Governor smiled, and a titter went round the court. "We willdispense with that, " he said. "We have better business this morning. " 34

"Excuse me, your Excellency, " said Philip; "I am still Deemster. Withyour leave we will do everything according to rule. "

There was a slight pause, a questioning look, then a cold answer. "Ofcourse, if you wish it; but your sense of duty----"

The ladies in the galleries bad ceased to flutter their fans, and themembers of the House of Keys were shifting in their seats in the wellbelow. 

The Clerk of the Deemster's Court pushed through to the space beneaththe bench. "There is only one case, your Honour, " he whispered up. 

"Speak out, sir, " said Philip. "What case is it?"

The Clerk gave an informal answer. It was the case of the young womanwho had attempted her life at Ramsey, and had been kept at Her Majesty'spleasure. 

"How long has she been in prison?"--"Seven weeks, your Honour. "

"Give me the book and I will sign the order for her release. "

The book was handed to the bench. Philip signed it, handed it back tothe Clerk, and said with his face to the jailor--

"But keep her until somebody comes to fetch her. "

There had been a cold silence during these proceedings. When they wereover, the ladies breathed freely. "You remember the case--left herhusband and little child--divorced since, I'm told--a worthlessperson. "--"Ah! yes, wasn't she first tried the day the Deemster fell illin court?"--"Men are too tender with such creatures. "

Philip had risen again. "Your Excellency, I have done the last of myduties as Deemster. " His voice had hoarsened. He was a worn and strickenfigure. 

The ex Governor's warmth had been somewhat cooled by the unexpectedinterruption. Nevertheless, the pock-marks smoothed out of his forehead, and he rose with a smile. At the same moment the Clerk of the Rollsstepped up and laid two books on the desk before him--a New Testamentin a tattered leather binding, and the _Liber Juramentorum_, the Book ofOaths. 

"The regret I feel, " said the ex-Governor, "and feel increasingly, day by day, at the severance of the ties which have bound me to thisbeautiful island is tempered by the satisfaction I experience that thechoice of my successor has fallen upon one whom I know to be a gentlemanof powerful intellect and stainless honour. He will preserve thatautonomous independence which has come down to you from a remoteantiquity, at the same time that he will uphold the fidelity of a peoplewho have always been loyal to the Crown. I pray that the blessing ofAlmighty God may attend his administration, and that, if the time evercomes when he too shall stand in the position I occupy to-day, he mayhave recollections as lively of the support and kindness he has metwith, and regrets as deep at his separation from the little Manx nationwhich he leaves behind. "

Then the Governor took the staff of office, and gave the signal forrising. Everybody rose. "And now, sir, " he said, turning to Philip witha smile, "to do everything, as you say, according to rule, let us firsttake Her Majesty's commission of your appointment. "

There was a moment's pause, and then Philip said in a cold clear voice--

"Your Excellency, I have no commission. The commission which I receivedI have returned. I have, therefore, no right to be installed asGovernor. Also, I have resigned my office as Deemster, and, though myresignation has not yet been accepted, I am, in reality, no longer inthe service of the State. "

The people looked at the speaker with eyes that were full of thestupefaction of surprise. Somebody bad risen at the back of the bench. It was the Clerk of the Rolls. He stretched out his hand as if to touchPhilip on the shoulder. Then he hesitated and sat down again. 

"Gentlemen of the Council and of the Keys, " continued Philip, "you willthink you have assembled to see a man take a leap into an abyssmore dark than death. That is as it may be. You have a right to anexplanation, and I am here to make it. What I have done has been at thecompulsion of conscience. I am not worthy of the office I hold, stillless of the office that is offered me. "

There was a half-articulate interruption from behind Philip's chair. 

"Ah! do not think, old friend, that I am dealing in vague selfdepreciation. I should have preferred not to speak more exactly, butwhat must be, must be. Your Excellency has spoken of my honour asspotless. Would to God it were so; but it is deeply stained with sin. "

He stopped, made an effort to begin afresh, and stopped again. Then, ina low tone, with measured utterance, amid breathless silence, he said--"I have lived a double life. Beneath the life that you have seen therehas been another--God only knows how full of wrongdoing and disgrace andshame. It is no part of my duty to involve others in this confession. Let it be enough that my career has been built on falsehood and robbery, that I have deceived the woman who loved me with her heart of hearts, and robbed the man who would have trusted me with his soul. "

The people began to breathe audibly. There was the scraping of a chairbehind the speaker. The Clerk of the Rolls had risen. His florid facewas violently agitated. 

"May it please your Excellency, " he began, faltering and stammering, ina husky voice, "it will be within your Excellency's knowledge, and theknowledge of every one on the island, that his Honour has only justrisen from a long and serious illness, brought on by overwork, by toozealous attention to his duties, and that--in fact, that--well, not toblink the plain truth, that----"

A sigh of immense relief had passed over the court, and the Governor, grown very pale, was nodding in assent. But Philip only smiled sadly andshook his head. 

"I have been ill indeed, " he said, "but not from the cause you speak of. The just judgment of God has overtaken me. "

The Clerk of the Rolls sank back into his seat. 

"The moment came when I had to sit in judgment on my own sin, the momentwhen she who had lost her honour in trusting to mine stood in the dockbefore me. I, who had been the first cause of her misfortunes, sat onthe bench as her judge. She is now in prison and I am here. The same lawwhich has punished her failing with infamy has advanced me to power. "

There was an icy quiet in the court, such as comes with the first gleamof the dawn. By that quick instinct which takes possession of a crowdat great moments, the people understood everything--the impurity ofthe character that had seemed so pure, the nullity of the life that hadseemed so noble. 

"When I asked myself what there was left to me to do, I could see butone thing. It was impossible to go on administering justice, beingmyself unjust, and remembering that higher bar before which I toowas yet to stand. I must cease to be Deemster. But that was only myprotection against the future, not my punishment for the past. I couldnot surrender myself to any earthly court, because I was guilty of nocrime against earthly law. The law cannot take a man into the court ofthe conscience. He must take himself there. "

He stopped again, and then said quietly, "My sentence is this openconfession of my sin, and renunciation of the worldly advantages whichhave been bought by the suffering of others. "

It was no longer possible to doubt him. He had sinned, and he had reapedthe reward of his sin. Those rewards were great and splendid, but he hadcome to renounce them all. The dreams of ambition were fulfilled, themiracle of life was realised, the world was conquered and at his feet, yet he was there to give up all. The quiet of the court had warmed to ahush of awe. He turned to the bench, but every face was down. Then hisown eyes fell. 

"Gentlemen of the Council, you who have served the island so long and sohonourably, perhaps you blame me for permitting you to come togetherfor the hearing of this confession. But if you knew the temptation Iwas under to fly away without making it, to turn my back on my past, to shuffle, my fault on to Fate, to lay the blame on Life, to persuademyself that I could not have acted differently, you would believe it wasnot lightly, and God knows, not vainly, that I suffered you to come hereto see me mount my scaffold. "

He turned back to the body of the court. 

"My countrymen and countrywomen, you who have been so much more kind tome than my character justified or my conduct merited. I say good-bye;but not as one who is going away. In conquering the impulse to gowithout confessing, I conquered the desire to go at all. Here, where myold life has fallen to ruin, my new life must be built up. That is theonly security. It is also the only justice. On this island, where myfall is known, my uprising may come--as is most right--only with bitterstruggle and sorrow and tears. But when it comes, it will come securely. It may be in years, in many years, but I am willing to wait--I am readyto labour. And, meantime, she who was worthy of my highest honour willshare my lowest degradation. That is the way of all women--God love andkeep them!"

The exaltation of his tones infected everybody. 

"It may be that you think I am to be pitied. There have been hours of mylife when I have been deserving of pity. But they have been the hours, the dark hours, when, in the prodigality of your gratitude, you haveloaded me with distinctions, and a shadow has haunted me, saying, 'Philip Christian, they think you a just judge--you are not a justjudge; they think you an upright man--you are not an upright man. ' Donot pity me now, when the dark hours are passed, when the new life hasbegun, when I am listening at length to the voice of my heart, which hasall along been the voice of God. "

His eyes shone, his mouth was smiling. 

"If you think how narrowly I escaped the danger of letting things goon as they were going, of covering up my fault, of concealing my truecharacter, of living as a sham and dying as a hypocrite, you willconsider me worthy of envy instead. Good-bye! good-bye! God bless you!"

Before any one appeared to be aware that his voice had ceased he wasgone from the bench, and the Deemster's chair stood empty. Then thepeople turned and looked into each other's stricken faces. They werestill standing, for nobody had thought of sitting down. 

There was no further speaking that day. Without a word or a sign theGovernor descended from his seat and the proceedings came to an end. Every one moved towards the door. "A great price to pay for it, though, "thought the men. "How he must have loved her, after all, " thought thewomen. 

At that moment the big Queen Elizabeth clock of the Castle was strikingtwelve, and the fishermen on Irish waters were raising a cheer for theirfriend at home. A loud detonation rang out over the town. It was thereport of a gun. There was another, and then a third. The shots werefrom a steamer that was passing the bay. 

Philip remembered--it was Pete's last farewell. 

XXIII. 

Half an hour later the Keep, the courtyard, and the passage to theportcullis were filled with an immense crowd. Ladies thronged the twoflights of external steps to the prisoners' chapel and the councilchamber. Men had climbed as high as to the battlements, and were lookingdown over the beetle-browed walls. All eyes were on the door to thedebtors' side of the prison, and a path from it was being kept clear. The door opened and Philip and Kate came out. There was no other exit, and they must have taken it. He was holding her firmly by the hand, andhalf-leading, half-drawing her along. Under the weight of so many eyes, her head was held down, but those who were near enough to see her faceknew that her shame was swallowed up in happiness and her fear in love. Philip was like a man transfigured. The extreme pallor of his cheekswas gone, his step was firm, and his face was radiant. It was the commonremark that never before had he looked so strong, so buoyant, so noble. This was the hour of his triumph, not that within the walls; this, whenhis sin was confessed, when conscience had no power to appal him, whenthe world and the pride of the world were beneath his feet, and he wasgoing forth from a prison cell, hand in hand with the fallen woman byhis side, to face the future with their bankrupt lives. 

And she? She was sharing his fiery ordeal. Before her outragedsisters and all the world she was walking with him in the depth of hishumiliation, at the height of his conquest, at the climax of his shameand glory. 

Once for a moment she halted and stumbled as if under the hot breaththat was beating upon her head. But he put his arm about her, and in amoment she was strong. The sun dipped down from the great tower on tohis upturned face, and his eyes were glistening through their tears. 

THE END.