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Title: The Manxman
       A Novel - 1895

Author: Hall Caine

Release Date: May 23, 2008 [EBook #25570]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MANXMAN ***




Produced by David Widger





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 the
outside, at all events. They called him Iron Christian, and people said,
"Don't turn that iron hand against you." Yet his character was stamped
with nobleness as well as strength. He was not a man of icy nature, but
he 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 to
be congealed about his face. He was a man of a closed soul. One had to
wrench open the dark chamber where he kept his feelings; but the man who
had 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 they
are not to hurry headlong into the abyss. Old Deemster Christian had
called this boy Thomas Wilson, after the serene saint who had once
been Bishop of Man. He was intended, however, for the law, not for
the Church. The office of Deemster never has been and never can be
hereditary; yet the Christians of Ballawhaine had been Deemsters through
six generations, and old Iron Christian expected that Thomas Wilson
Christian would succeed him. But there was enough uncertainty about the
succession 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, and
afterwards called him to practise in the Manx one. The young fellow had
not altogether rewarded his father's endeavours. During his residence
in England, he had acquired certain modern doctrines which were highly
obnoxious to the old Deemster. New views on property, new ideas
about woman and marriage, new theories concerning religion (always
re-christened superstition), the usual barnacles of young vessels fresh
from unknown waters; but the old man was no shipwright in harbour who
has learnt the art of removing them without injury to the hull. The
Deemster knew these notions when he met with them in the English
newspapers. There was something awesome in their effect on his
stay-at-home imagination, as of vices confusing and difficult to true
men that walk steadily; but, above all, very far off, over the mountains
and across the sea, like distant cities of Sodom, only waiting for
Sodom's doom. And yet, lo! here they were in a twinkling, shunted and
shot into his own house and his own stackyard.

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

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

Iron Christian altered his will. To his elder son he left only a
life-interest in Ballawhaine. "That boy will be doing something," he
said, and thus he guarded against consequences. He could not help it; he
was ashamed, but he could not conquer his shame--the fiery old man began
to 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 elder
had his father's inside fire and softness, Peter, the younger, had his
father'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 hollow
chest and limbs that splayed away into vacancy. And if Nature had been
grudging with him, his father was not more kind. He had been brought up
to no profession, and his expectations were limited to a yearly charge
out 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 things
against him.

Besides these sons, Deemster Christian had a girl in his household, but
to his own consciousness the fact was only a kind of peradventure. She
was his niece, the child of his only brother, who had died in early
manhood. Her name was Ann Charlotte de la Tremouille, called after
the lady of Rushen, for the family of Christian had their share of the
heroic that is in all men. She had fine eyes, a weak mouth, and great
timidity. Gentle airs floated always about her, and a sort of nervous
brightness twinkled over her, as of a glen with the sun flickering
through. Her mother died when she was a child of twelve, and in the
house of her uncle and her cousins she had been brought up among men and
boys.

One day Peter drew the Deemster aside and told him (with expressions
of shame, interlarded with praises of his own acuteness) a story of his
brother. It was about a girl. Her name was Mona Crellin; she lived on
the hill at Ballure House, half a mile south of Ramsey, and was
daughter of a man called Billy Ballure, a retired sea-captain, and
hail-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's
what your fine learning comes to, eh? Take care, sir! take care! No son
of mine shall disgrace himself. The day he does that he will be put to
the 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 a
mincing treble. Then he roared, "Behaving dishonourably to a poor
girl--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 around
Ballure, and letting that poor girl take notions. I'll have no more
of it. Is this what I sent you to England for? Aren't you ashamed of
yourself? Keep your place, sir; keep your place. A poor girl's a poor
girl, and a Deemster's a Deemster."

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

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

The old Deemster turned his good ear towards his son's face, and the
young man repeated his threat. Never fear! No poor girl should be misled
by 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 of
that sot, too, that old rip, that rowdy blatherskite--that----And my
own son is to lift his hand to cut his throat! Yes, sir, cut his
throat----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's
clamour.

"You will, though? You will? Then your hat is your house, sir. Take to
it--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 the
room. It was not the Deemster only who feared he might lay hands on his
own flesh and blood.

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

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. Then
he went back slowly, his grey hair playing in the wind. He was all iron
outside, but all father within.

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




II.

Peter succeeded in due course to the estate of Ballawhaine, but he was
not a lawyer, and the line of the Deemsters Christian was broken.

Meantime Thomas Wilson Christian had been married to Mona Crellin
without delay. He loved her, but he had been afraid of her ignorance,
afraid also (notwithstanding his principles) of the difference in their
social rank, and had half intended to give her up when his father's
reproaches had come to fire his anger and to spur his courage. As
soon 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 tie
in making the one which brought him down. The rich disowned him, and the
poor 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 lost
heart and ambition. His philosophy did not stand him in good stead, for
it 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 good
face, a bad shape, a vacant mind, and a great deal of vanity. She
had liked her husband a little as a lover, but when she saw that her
marriage brought her nobody's envy, she fell into a long fit of the
vapours. Eventually she made herself believe that she was an ill-used
person. She never ceased to complain of her fate. Everybody treated her
as if she had laid plans for her husband's ruin.

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

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

Yet the man continued to love her in spite of all. And she was not
at 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 busy
woman. The house was sweet and homely. There was only one thing to drive
him away from it, but that was the greatest thing of all. Nevertheless
they had their cheerful hours together.

A child was born, a boy, and they called him Philip. He was the
beginning of the end between them; the iron stay that held them together
and yet apart. The father remembered his misfortunes in the presence
of his son, and the mother was stung afresh by the recollection of
disappointed hopes. The boy was the true heir of Ballawhaine, but the
inheritance 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 amiable
and big-hearted, and even almost great, in him. One day the father
sat 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 two
big lads whom he had enticed out of the road, and another more familiar
playmate--the little barefooted boy Peter, from the cottage by the
water-trough. At first Philip lost, and with grunts of satisfaction
the big ones promptly pocketed their gains. Then Philip won, and little
curly Peter was stripped naked, and his lip began to fall. At that
Philip paused, held his head aside, and considered, and then said quite
briskly, "Peter hadn't a fair chance that time--here, let's give him
another 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't
like other boys. What do you say? Foolish? May be so, may be so! No
difference? 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 to
cherish 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 must
love, a sense of justice, and a great wealth of the power of radiating
happiness. 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 own
sphere. The island was too little for that. To love and to despise was
to suffer the torments of the damned.

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

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

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

"Go, my lad, go," he would sometimes whimper, and hustle the boy out of
the 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 as
well."

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 and
tears. Then the woman would change quite suddenly, and put her arms
about him and kiss him and weep over him. He could defend himself from
neither her insults nor her embraces. In spite of everything he loved
her. That was where the bitterness of the evil lay. But for the love he
bore her, he might have got her off his back and been his own man once
more. He would make peace with her and kiss her again, and they would
both kiss the boy, and be tender, and even cheerful.

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

A man cannot fight against himself for long. That deadly enemy is
certain to slay. When Philip was six years old his father lay sick of
his last sickness. The wife had fallen into habits of intemperance by
this time, and stage by stage she had descended to the condition of an
utterly degraded woman. There was something to excuse her. She had been
disappointed in the great stakes of life; she had earned disgrace
where she had looked for admiration. She was vain, and could not bear
misfortune; and she had no deep well of love from which to drink when
the fount of her pride ran dry. If her husband had indulged her with a
little pity, everything might have gone along more easily. But he had
only 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 certain
voices of mocking and reproach seemed to be constantly humming in his
ears.

"Your son!" they would cry. "What is to become of him? Your dreams!
Your great dreams! Deemster! Ballawhaine! God knows what! You are
leaving 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 the
night, 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 tell
him of my own father also, God rest him, the stern old man--severe, yet
just."

An opportunity soon befell. It was late at night--very late. The woman
was sleeping off a bout of intemperance somewhere below; and the boy,
with the innocence and ignorance of his years in all that the solemn
time 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-head
and 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 then
I 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 it
back.

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

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

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

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

"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." And
the boy began to caper and dance, to go down on all fours, and leap
about 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 was
death; they had no common ground; they spoke different tongues. And,
after all, how could he suffer the sweet innocence of the child's soul
to 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 speak
of your father, you will be ashamed. Perhaps you will not remember then
that whatever he was he was a good father to you, for at least he loved
you dearly. Well, I must needs bow to the will of God, but if I could
only 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'll
say no more about it then. Perhaps it's not true, although father tolded
you? Well, perhaps not. And now undress and slip into bed before mother
comes. See, there's your night-dress at the foot of the crib. Wants some
buttons, does it? Never mind--in with you--that's a boy."

Impossible, impossible! And perhaps unnecessary. Who should say? Young
as the child was, he might never forget what he had seen and heard. Some
day it must have its meaning for him. Thus the father comforted
himself. Those jangling quarrels which had often scorched his brain like
iron--the memory of their abject scenes came to him then, with a sort of
bleeding solace!

Meanwhile, with little catching sobs, which he struggled to repress, the
boy lay down in his crib. When half-way gone towards the mists of the
land 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 the
house. The servant was scurrying up and downstairs, and the mistress,
wringing her hands, was tramping to and fro in the sick-room, crying in
a 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-dress
to his father's side; and the father twisted about and took him into his
arms, still half asleep and yawning. Then the mother, recovering from
the stupidity of her surprise, broke into paroxysms of weeping, and fell
over her husband's breast and kissed and kissed him.

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

The dead of the night was gone by this time, and the day was at the
point 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 bay
with the sound as of a rookery awakening. Philip remembered afterwards
that his mother cried so much that he was afraid, and that when he
had been dressed she took him downstairs, where they all ate breakfast
together, with the sun shining through the blinds.

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

Then Philip's father's cousin, always called his Aunty Nan, came to
Ballure 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 hero
also. A deep and secret tenderness, too timid to be quite aware of
itself, had been lying in ambush in her heart through all the years
of his miserable life with Mona. At the death of the old Deemster, her
other cousin, Peter, had married and cast her off. But she was always
one of those woodland herbs which are said to give out their sweetest
fragrance after they have been trodden on and crushed. Philip's father
had been her hero, her lost one and her love, and Philip was his
father'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 the
hole in his trousers where the tail of his shirt should have been, was
Peter Quilliam, and he was the natural son of Peter Christian. In the
days when that punctilious worthy set himself to observe the doings of
his elder brother at Ballure, he found it convenient to make an outwork
of the hedge in front of the thatched house that stood nearest. Two
persons lived in the cottage, father and daughter--Tom Quilliam, usually
called Black Tom, and Bridget Quilliam, getting the name of Bridget
Black 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 of
tobacco. The girl was by common judgment and report a gawk--a great,
slow-eyed, comely-looking, comfortable, easy-going gawk. Black Tom was
a thatcher, and with his hair poking its way through the holes in his
straw hat, he tramped the island in pursuit of his calling. This kept
him from home for days together, and in that fact Peter Christian, while
shadowing the morality of his brother, found his own opportunity.

When the child was born, neither the thatcher nor his daughter attempted
to father it. Peter Christian paid twenty pounds to the one and eighty
to the other in Manx pound-notes, the boys daubed their door to show
that 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 Miss
Christian of Ballawhaine, and when she took it back, the good soul of
the sweet lady thought to improve the occasion.

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

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

Bridget may have been a gawk, but she did two things which were not
gawkish. Putting the eighty greasy notes into the foot of an old
stocking, she sewed them up in the ticking of her bed, and then
christened her baby Peter. The money was for the child if she should not
live to rear him, and the name was her way of saying that a man's son
was his son in spite of law or devil.

After that she kept both herself and her child by day labour in the
fields, weeding and sowing potatoes, and following at the tail of the
reapers, for sixpence a day dry days, and fourpence all weathers. She
might have badgered the heir of Ballawhaine, but she never did so. That
person came into his inheritance, got himself elected member for Ramsey
in the House of Keys, married Nessy Taubman, daughter of the rich
brewer, and became the father of another son. Such were the doings
in the big house down in the valley, while up in the thatched cottage
behind 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 beautiful
white house with the big fuchsia, by the turn of the road over the
bridge that crossed the glen. This was Philip Christian, half a year
older than himself, although several inches shorter, with long yellow
hair and rosy cheeks, and dressed in a velvet suit of knickerbockers.
Pete worshipped him in his simple way, hung about him, fetched and
carried for him, and looked up to him as a marvel of wisdom and goodness
and pluck.

His first memory of Philip was of sleeping with him, snuggled up by his
side 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--a
tall, white gentleman, who never laughed at all, and only smiled
sometimes--had found him in the road in the evening waiting for his
mother to come home from the fields, that he might light the fire in the
cottage, and running about in the meantime to keep himself warm, and not
too hungry.

His second memory was of Philip guiding him round the drawing-room (over
thick carpets, on which his bare feet made no noise), and showing him
the 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 who
killed his victims, and always skinned their skulls with a cross-handled
dagger. After that his memories of Philip and himself were as two gleams
of sunshine which mingle and become one.

Philip was a great reader of noble histories. He found them, frayed
and tattered, at the bottom of a trunk that had tin corners and two
padlocks, and stood in the room looking towards the harbour where his
mother's father, the old sailor, had slept. One of them was his special
favourite, and he used to read it aloud to Pete. It told of the doings
of the Carrasdhoo men. They were a bold band of desperadoes, the terror
of all the island. Sometimes they worked in the fields at ploughing, and
reaping, and stacking, the same as common practical men; and sometimes
they lived in houses, just like the house by the water-trough. But when
the wind was rising in the nor-nor-west, and there was a taste of the
brine on your lips, they would be up, and say, "The sea's calling us--we
must be going." Then they would live in rocky caves of the coast where
nobody could reach them, and there would be fires lit at night in
tar-barrels, and shouting, and singing, and carousing; and after that
there would be ships' rudders, and figure heads, and masts coming up
with the tide, and sometimes dead bodies on the beach of sailors they
had drowned--only foreign ones though--hundreds and tons of them. But
that was long ago, the Carrasdhoo men were dead, and the glory of their
day was departed.

One quiet evening, after an awesome reading of this brave history,
Philip, sitting on his haunches at the gable, with Pete like another
white 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, and
Pete'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 of
Port 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 line
of the sky.

"That's what we call a reef," said Philip. "Wait a bit and you'll see
the 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. It
was nearly dark, and growing very cold. The lads croodled down by the
crackling 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 for
supper."

"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 except
the revolving light of the lightship far a Way. The boys crept closer
together and began to think of home. Philip remembered Aunty Nan. When
he had stolen away on hands and knees under the parlour window she had
been sewing at his new check night-shirt. A night-shirt for a Carrasdhoo
man had seemed to be ridiculous then; but where was Aunty Nannie now?
Pete remembered his mother--she would be racing round the houses and
crying; and he had visions of Black Tom--he would be racing round also
and swearing.

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

"Sing!" said Philip, with as much scorn as he could summon, "and give
them 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--I
mean the reefs--and the dead men's coming up like corks--hundreds and
ninety 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 through
the back of the cave, the gorse crackled no longer, and the turf burned
in a dull red glow. Night with its awfulness had come down, and the boys
were cut off from everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Just lave it to me," said Pete; "I'll hear them if they come in the
night. 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 it
times."

"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 they
could 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's
middling 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 said
them, knee to knee, with their two little faces to the fire, and then
stretched themselves out afresh.

"Pete, where's your hand?"

"Here you are, Phil."

In another minute, under the solemn darkness of the night, broken only
by the smouldering fire, amid the thunderous quake of the cavern after
every 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, he
only 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 themselves
I'm telling you, ma'm. Guy heng! The woman's mad, putting a scream out
of herself like yonder. Safe? Coorse they're safe, bad luck to the young
wastrels! You're for putting up a prayer for your own one. Eh? Well,
I'm for hommering mine. The dirts? Weaned only yesterday, and fetching
a dacent man out of his bed to find them. A fire at them, too! Well, it
was the fire that found them. Pull the boat up, boys."

Philip was half awake by this time. "They've come," he whispered. "The
ships 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 to
the mouth of the cave. At the next moment Philip found himself snatched
up into the arms of Aunty Nan, who kissed him and cried over him, and
rammed a great chunk of sweet cake into his cheek. Pete was faring
differently. Under the leathern belt of Black Tom, who was thrashing him
for both of them, he was howling like the sea in a storm.

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




IV.

Philip left home for school at King William's by Castletown, and then
Pete had a hard upbringing. His mother was tender enough, and there were
good souls like Aunty Nan to show pity to both of them. But life went
like a springless bogey, nevertheless. Sin itself is often easier than
simpleness to pardon and condone. It takes a soft heart to feel tenderly
towards a soft head.

Poor Pete's head seemed soft enough and to spare. No power and no
persuasion could teach him to read and write. He went to school at the
old schoolhouse by the church in Maughold village. The schoolmaster was
a little man called John Thomas Corlett, pert and proud, with the sharp
nose 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-legged
among his cloth, his "maidens," and his smoothing irons, with his boys
and girls, class by class, in a big half circle round about him.

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

The soul of the schoolmaster had just two human weaknesses. One of these
was a weakness for drink, and as a little vessel he could not take much
without being full. Then he always taught the Church catechism and swore
at his boys in Manx.

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

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

The second of the schoolmaster's frailties was love of his daughter, a
child of four, a cripple, whom he had lamed in her infancy, by letting
her fall as he tossed her in his arms while in drink. The constant
terror 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 had
thrown up its lower sash, dim with the scratches of names, he could see
one end of his own white cottage, and the little pathway, between lines
of 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 her
mother and escaped into the road. One day it chanced, after the heavy
spring rains had swollen every watercourse, that he came upon the little
curly poll, tumbling and tossing like a bell-buoy in a gale, down the
flood of the river that runs to the sea at Port Mooar. Pete rescued the
child and took her home, and then, as if he had done nothing unusual, he
went 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 boy
for being later than usual rose to fiery wrath for being drenched as
well. Waiting for no explanation, concluding that Pete had been fishing
for crabs among the stones of Port Lewaigue, he burst into a loud volley
of his accustomed expletives, and timed and punctuated them by a thwack
of 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 her
place beside the boy, shot up like a gleam to the schoolmaster as he
returned to his seat among the cloth and needles, dealt him a smart slap
across the face, and then burst into a lit of hysterical crying. Her
name was Katherine Cregeen. She was the daughter of Cæsar the Cornaa
miller, the founder of Ballajora Chapel, and a mighty man among the
Methodists.

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 bit
of reading if it was all in print, and no writing at all except
half-a-dozen capital letters. It was not a formidable equipment for the
battle of life, but Bridget would not hear of more.

She herself, meanwhile, had annexed that character which was always
the first and easiest to attach itself to a woman with a child but
no visible father for it--the character of a witch. That name for his
mother was Pete's earliest recollection of the high-road, and when the
consciousness of its meaning came to him, he did not rebel, but sullenly
acquiesced, 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 "your
mother's a butch." Then he cried at the reproach, or perhaps fought like
a vengeance at the insult, but he never dreamt of disbelieving the fact
or of loving his mother any the less.

Bridget was accused of the evil eye. Cattle sickened in the fields, and
when there was no proof that she had looked over the gate, the idea was
suggested that she crossed them as a hare. One day a neighbour's dog
started a hare in a meadow where some cows were grazing. This was
observed by a gang of boys playing at hockey in the road. Instantly
there was a shout and a whoop, and the boys with their sticks were in
full chase after the yelping dog, crying, "The butch! The butch! It's
Bridget 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 ran
after the dogs in their fanatic thirst, he ran too, but with a storm of
other feelings. Outstripping all of them, very close at the heels of
the dogs, kicking some, striking others with the hockey-stick, while the
tears poured down his cheeks, he cried at the top of his voice to the
hare 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 pursuers
just as Corlett, the farmer, who had heard the outcry, came racing up
with a gun. Then Pete swept his coat-sleeve across his gleaming eyes and
leapt off home. When he got there, he found his mother sitting on the
bink by the door knitting quietly. He threw himself into her arms and
stroked her cheek with his hand.

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

"Is the boy mad?" said Bridget.

But Pete went on stroking her cheek and crying between sobs of joy, "I
heard Corlett shouting to the house for a gun and a fourpenny bit, and
I 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 on
the ridge of rock at the mouth of Ballure Glen, playing doleful strains
on a home-made whistle, and looking the picture of desolation and
despair. 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 watch
and tend her while he came out to comfort his simple heart in this lone
spot between the land and the sea.

Katherine's eyes filled at sight of him, and when, without looking up or
speaking, he went on to play his crazy tunes, something took the girl by
the 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 and
gazing out to sea with a look of dumb vacancy. Katherine knelt beside
him, 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 towards
the house without a word.

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

Cæsar Cregeen was at her side; John the Clerk, too, called John the
Widow; Kelly, the rural postman, who went by the name of Kelly the
Thief; as well as Black Tom, her father. Cæsar was discoursing of
sinners and their latter end. John was remembering how at his election
to 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 Christian
Balla-whaine; and Black Tom was varying the exercise of pounding
rock-sugar for his bees with that of breaking his playful wit on the
dying 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," she
answered.

"Dear heart! Put up a bit of a prayer," whispered Grannie to her
husband; 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 broken
spiders' webs hung down like rats' tails.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When all was over, and tears both hot and cold were wiped away--Pete
shed none of them--the neighbours who had stood with the lad in the
churchyard on Maughold Head returned to the cottage by the water-trough
to decide what was to be done with his eighty good bank-notes. "It's
a 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 the
Widow; "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 having
your own shop and your own name over the door, if you plaze--' Peter
Quilliam, tay and sugar merchant!'--they're telling me John will be
riding in his carriage and pair soon."

"Chut! your grannie and your carriage and pairs," shouted a rasping
voice at last. It was Black Tom. "Who says the fortune is belonging to
the 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 a
coffin, had made his way down to Ballawhaine. He had never been there
before, and he felt confused, but he did not tremble. Half-way up the
carriage-drive he passed a sandy-haired youth of his own age, a slim
dandy 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 of
Christian Ballawhaine.

At the big house Pete asked for the master. The English footman, in
scarlet knee-breeches, left him to wait in the stone hall. The place was
very quiet and rather cold, but all as clean as a gull's wing. There was
a dark table in the middle and a high-backed chair against the wall. Two
oil pictures faced each other from opposite sides. One was of an old man
without a beard, but with a high forehead, framed around with short grey
hair. 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 be
the likeness of a fancy tombstone. And the print on it, so far as Pete
could spell it out, was that of a tombstone too, "In loving memory of
Verbena, beloved wife of Peter Chr--"

The Ballawhaine came crunching the sand on the hall-floor. He looked
old, and had now a pent-house of bristly eyebrows of a different colour
from 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 jerky
voice, 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 to
inform him. He thought Pete had come to claim maintenance now that his
mother 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 that
you're my father, sir."

The Ballawhaine tried to laugh. "Indeed!" he replied; "it's a wise
child, 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, and
protesting that no son of hers should ever see the colour of money of
his. Saying this with a snarl, he brought down his right hand with a
thump on to the table. There was a big hairy mole near the joint of the
first finger.

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

He turned up the corner of his jersey, tugged out of his pocket, from
behind his flaps, the eighty Manx bank-notes, and held them in his right
hand on the table. There was a mole at the joint of Pete's first finger
also.

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 are
you 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 his
tails with the hand that had been lurking there, and began to mop his
forehead. "Eh? How? What d'ye mean, boy?" he stammered.

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

He took a step nearer. "And I mane, too, that you did wrong by my mother
long ago, and now that she's dead you're blackening her; and you're a
bad 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 the
door."

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

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




V.

Katherine Cregeen, Pete's champion at school, had been his companion at
home as well. She was two years younger than Pete. Her hair was a black
as a gipsy's, and her face as brown as a berry. In summer she liked
best to wear a red frock without sleeves, no boots and no stockings, no
collar and no bonnet, not even a sun-bonnet. From constant exposure
to the sun and rain her arms and legs were as ruddy as her cheeks, and
covered with a soft silken down. So often did you see her teeth that you
would have said she was always laughing. Her laugh was a little saucy
trill given out with head aside and eyes aslant, like that of a squirrel
when he is at a safe height above your head, and has a nut in his open
jaws.

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

After Philip had gone to King William's, Pete and Katherine had become
bosom friends. Instead of going home after school to cool his heels in
the road until his mother came from the fields, he found it neighbourly
to go up to Ballajora and round by the network of paths to Cornaa. That
was a long detour, but Cæsar's mill stood there. It nestled down in the
low 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 little
human songster sang there always.

When Pete went that way home, what times the girl had of it! Wading up
the river, clambering over the stones, playing female Blondin on the
fallen tree-trunks that spanned the chasm, slipping, falling, holding on
any way up (legs or arms) by the rotten branches below, then calling for
Pete's help in a voice between a laugh and a cry, flinging chips into
the foaming back-wash of the mill-wheel, and chasing them down stream,
racing among the gorse, and then lying full length like a lamb, without
a 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 great
lumbering tame duck waddling behind her.

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

When Cæsar had taken a wife, he had married Betsy, the daughter of the
owner of the inn at Sulby. After that he had "got religion," and he held
that persons in the household of faith were not to drink, or to buy or
to sell drink. But Grannie's father died and left his house, "The Manx
Fairy," and his farm, Glenmooar, to her and her husband. About the same
time the miller at Sulby also died, and the best mill in the island
cried out for a tenant. Cæsar took the mill and the farm, and Grannie
took the inn, being brought up to such profanities and no way bound by
principle. From that time forward, Cæsar pinned all envious cavillers
with the text which says, "Not that which goeth into the mouth of a man
defileth him, but that which cometh out."

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

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

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

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

It was a curious household he entered into. First there was Cæsar
himself, in a moleskin waistcoat with sleeves open three buttons up,
knee-breeches usually unlaced, stockings of undyed wool, and slippers
with the tongues hanging out--a grim soul, with whiskers like a hoop
about 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 by
the mouth. Then Grannie, a comfortable body in a cap, with an outlook on
life that was all motherhood, a simple, tender, peaceable soul, agreeing
with everybody and everything, and seeming to say nothing but "Poor
thing! Poor thing!" and "Dear heart! Dear heart!" Then there was
Nancy Cain, getting the name of Nancy Joe, the servant in name but
the mistress in fact, a niece of Grannie's, a bit of a Pagan, an early
riser, a tireless worker, with a plain face, a rooted disbelief in all
men, 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 hair
done up in a red ribbon and wearing a black pinafore bordered with white
braid.

Pete got on steadily at the mill. He began by lighting the kiln fire and
cleaning out the pit-wheel, and then on to the opening the flood-gates
in the morning and regulating the action of the water-wheel according to
the work of the day. In two years' time he was a sound miller, safe to
trust with rough stuff for cattle or fine flour for white loaf-bread.
Cæsar trusted him. He would take evangelising journeys to Peel or
Douglas 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 in
chalk on the back of the mill-house door, a down line for every stone
weight up to eight stones, and a line across for every hundredweight.
Then, once a day, while the father was abroad, Katherine came over from
the inn to the desk at the little window of the mill, and turned Pete's
lines into ledger accounts. These financial councils were full of
delicious 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 you
say 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 were
very precious to his memory after Katherine had spoken them. They sang
in his heart the same as song-birds then. They were like hymns and tunes
and pieces of poetry.

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

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

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

Towards midnight Katherine began to fail. "Chain the devil,", cried
Cæsar. "Once I was down in the pit with the devil myself, but now I'm
up in the loft, seeing angels through the thatch. Can't you feel the
workings 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 choir
among "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 on
the "singing seat." Observing his regularity, Cæsar laid a hand on his
head and told him the Spirit was working in his soul at last. Sometimes
Pete thought it was, and that was when he shut his eyes and listened to
Katherine'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 himself
in the middle of Cæsar's mightiest prayers crooking his neck past the
pitching bald pate of Johnny Niplightly, the constable, that he might
get 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 his
wages. On this he played in the cowhouse on winter evenings, and from
the top of the midden outside in summer. When Cæsar heard of it his
wrath was fearful. What was a fiddler? He was a servant of corruption,
holding a candle to disorderly walkers and happy sinners on their way
into the devil's pinfold. And what for was fiddles? Fiddles was for
play-actors and theaytres. "And theaytres is _there_," said Cæsar,
indicating with his foot one flag on the kitchen-floor, "and hell flames
is _there_," he added, rolling his toe over to the joint of the next
one.

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

Cæsar was shaken. "Well, of course, certainly," he said, "if there's a
power in fiddling to bring souls out of bondage, and if there's going to
be 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 went
out no more at nights to the cowhouse, but stayed indoors to practise
hymns with Katherine. Oh, the terrible rapture of those nightly
"practices!" They brought people to the inn to hear them, and so Cæsar
found them good for profit both ways.

There was something in Cæsar's definition, nevertheless. It was found
that among the saints there were certain weaker brethren who did not
want a hymn to their ale. One of these was Johnny Niplightly, the rural
constable, who was the complement of Katherine in the choir, being
leader 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, he
turned in at "The Manx Fairy," when Cæsar and Grannie were both
from home, and Nancy Joe was in charge, and Pete and Katherine were
practising 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 a
deep 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," said
Nancy. "Enjoy yourself to the full, girl, but don't make a noise above
the 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 the
road into the parlour certain fellows of the baser sort, and behind them
came one who was not of that denomination--a fair young man with a fine
face under an Alpine hat. Heeding nothing of this audience, the girl
gave 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 practised
in the days of the cowhouse, and off went Katherine with a whoop. The
boys stood back for her, bending down on their haunches as at a fight of
gamecocks, 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 see
the 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. She
had tried to keep her eyes away, but could not. "My goodness grayshers!"
she cried. "Did you ever see the like, though? Screwing like the
windmill on the schoolhouse! Well, well, Kitty, woman! Aw, Kirry, Kirry!
Wherever did she get it, then? Goodsakes, the girl's twisting herself
into knots!"

Pete was pulling away at the fiddle with both hands, like a bottom
sawyer, his eyes dancing, his lips quivering, the whole soul of the lad
lifted 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 was
tumbling 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 days
had been suppressed, and famished and starved into moans and groans, she
was carried away by her own fire, gave herself up to it, and danced
on the flags of the kitchen which had served Cæsar for his practical
typology, like a creature intoxicated with new breath.

Meantime Cæsar himself, coming home in his chapel hat (his tall black
beaver) from Peel, where he had been buying the year's stock of herrings
at the boat's side, had overtaken, on the road, the venerable parson of
his 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's
seat, which was cushioned with a sack of hay. The parson had accepted
the 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 touch
of the whip, they were away together, with the light of the gig-lamp on
the hind-quarters of the mare, as they bobbed and screwed like a
mill-race under the splash-hoard.

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

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

"And may I presume, Pazon Quiggin, what d'ye think of the text--'Praise
the 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, blinking
his little eyes in the dark.

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

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

"And talking of praise," said Cæsar, "I hear them there at their
practices. Asking pardon now--it's proud I'd be, sir--perhaps you'd not
be 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 at
the 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 face
behind him. There was a moment's silence. The uplifted toe of Katherine
trailed back to the ground, the fiddle of Pete slithered to his farther
side, and the smacking lips of Niplightly transfixed themselves agape.
Then the voice of the parson was heard to say, "Vanity, vanity, all is
vanity!" and suddenly Cæsar, still on the threshold, went down on his
knees to pray.

Cæsar's prayer was only a short one. His mortified pride called for
quicker solace. Rising to his feet with as much dignity as he could
command under the twinkling eyes of the parson, he stuttered, "The
capers! Making a dacent house into a theaytre! Respectable person,
too--one of the first that's going! So," facing the spectators, "just
help yourselves home the pack of you! As for these ones," turning on
Kate, 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 have
three sinners to raise my singing. These polices, too!" he said with
a withering smile. (Niplightly was worming his way out at the back of
Parson Quiggin.)

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

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

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

Pete, with his eye on the parson's face, could control himself no
longer, and he laughed so loud that the room rang.

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

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

"My gough! What? Phil!" cried Pete, and he laid hold of him with both
hands 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--good
fun anyway. Are you willing?"

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

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

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

"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 with
a touch of sadness, "shocking nice!"

Presently they heard the pattering of light feet in the darkness behind
them, 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, kissed
it on the mouth, and was gone again without a word.




VI.

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

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

That was the shaft that found Philip. The one passion that burned in his
heart like a fire was reverence for the name and the will of his dead
father. The big hopes of the broken man had sometimes come as a torture
to the boy when the blood of the old salt was rioting within him. But
now they came as a spur.

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

If Phil had much of the blood of Captain Billy, Pete had much of the
blood of Black Tom. After leaving the mill at Sulby, Pete made his home
in the cabin of the smack. What he was to eat, and how he was to be
clothed, and where he was to be lodged when the cold nights came, never
troubled his mind for an instant. He had fine times with his partner.
The terms of their partnership were simple. Phil took the fun and made
Pete take the fish. They were a pair of happy-go-lucky lads, and they
looked to the future with cheerful faces.

There was one shadow over their content, and that was the ghost of a
gleam of sunshine. It made daylight between them, though, day by day
as they ran together like two that run a race. The prize was Katherine
Cregeen. Pete talked of her till Phil's heart awoke and trembled; but
Phil hardly knew it was so, and Pete never once suspected it. Neither
confessed to the other, and the shifts of both to hide the secret of
each were boyish and beautiful.

There is a river famous for trout that rises in Sulby glen and flows
into Ramsey harbour. One of the little attempts of the two lads to
deceive each other was to make believe that it was their duty to fish
this river with the rod, and so wander away singly up the banks of the
stream until they came to "The Manx Fairy," and then drop in casually
to quench the thirst of so much angling. Towards the dusk of evening
Philip, in a tall silk hat over a jacket and knickerbockers, would come
upon Pete by the Sulby bridge, washed, combed, and in a collar. Then
there would be looks of great surprise on both sides. "What, Phil! Is
it yourself, though? Just thought I'd see if the trouts were biting
to-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 sight
on them inside, eh?" After that prelude they would go into the house
together.

This little comedy was acted every night for weeks. It was acted on
Hollantide 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 that
was a mass of chalk hieroglyphics. Cæsar himself in ponderous spectacles
and with a big book in his hands was sitting in the kitchen behind with
his back to the glass, so as to make the lamp of the business serve also
for his studies. On a bench in the bar sat Black Tom, smoking, spitting,
scraping his feet on the sanded floor, and looking like a gigantic
spider with enormous bald head. At his side was a thin man with a face
pitted by smallpox, and a forehead covered with strange protuberances.
This was Jonaique Jelly, barber, clock-mender, and Manx patriot. The
postman was there, too, Kelly the Thief, a tiny creature with twinkling
ferret eyes, and a face that had a settled look of age, as of one born
old, being wrinkled in squares like the pointing of a cobble wall.

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

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

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 Red
back home with a fortune. And ould Corlett--look at ould Corlett, the
Ballabeg! Five years away at the diggings, and left a house worth twenty
pounds per year per annum, not to spake of other hereditaments."

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

"Lave me alone for that," said the voice of the barber. "Manx-land for
the 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 with
these English scouring over it like puffins on the Calf, it isn't much
that's left of the ould island but the name. The best of the Manx boys
are going away foreign, same as these ones."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Black Tom was lifting his pot. "That's the one thing," said he, "the
Almighty 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 like
the rest of the infidels, sir," said he, "only spaking to contradick
yourself--calling God the Almighty, and telling in the same breath of
something He can't do."

Meanwhile an encounter of another sort was going on at the ingle. Kate
had re-appeared with a table fork which she used at intervals to test
the boiling of the potatoes. At each approach to the fire she passed
close to where Pete sat, never looking at Phil above the level of his
boots. And as often as she bent over the pot, Pete put his arm round her
waist, being so near and so tempting. For thus pestering her she beat
her foot like a goat, and screwed on a look of anger which broke down in
a stifled laugh; but she always took care to come again to Pete's side
rather than to Phil's, until at last the nudging and shoving ended in a
pinch 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 Phil
to draw his breath heavily, when the girl came back as suddenly bringing
an apple and a length of string. Mounting a chair, she fixed one end of
the string to the lath of the ceiling by the peck, the parchment oatcake
pan, 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 pace
with 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, and
nod, and bob, her mouth opening and closing, her white teeth gleaming,
and her whole face bubbling over with delight. At every touch the
speed increased, and the laughter grew louder as the apple went faster.
Everybody, except the miller, joined in the fun. Phil cried out on the
girl to look to her teeth, but Pete egged her on to test the strength of
them.

"Snap at it, Kitty!" cried Pete. "Aw, lost! Lost again! Ow! One in the
cheek! 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! Such
practices 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 came
from 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 by
ten o'clock on Hollantide Eve to lave room for the little people that's
outside to come in. And the big woman of the house would be filling the
crocks for the fairies to drink, and the big man himself would be raking
the ashes so they might bake their cakes, and a girl, same as you, would
be going to bed backwards----"

"I know! I know!" cried Kate, near to the ceiling, and clapping her
hands. "She eats a roasted apple, and goes to bed thirsty, and then
dreams that somebody brings her a drink of water, and that's the one
that'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 but
instruments of Satan, and the ones that's telling it are just flying in
the face of faith from superstition and contrariety. It isn't dacent in
a Christian public-house, and I'm for having no more of it."

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

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

"Let them wait," said the girl, but she laughed, and Pete knew she would
come. Then he turned to Philip, "A word in your ear, Phil," he said, and
took him by the arm and drew him out of the house and round to the yard
of 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 be
making a start for somewhere."

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

After they were gone, Grannie began counting the till and saying, "As
for fairies--one, two, three--it may be, as Cæsar says--four--five--the
like 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 words
going to bed on Hollantide Eve does no harm at all, at all."

Outside in the stable-yard the feet of Black Tom and Jonaique Jelly
were heard going off on the road. The late moon was hanging low, red as
an evening sun, over the hill to the south-east. Pete was puffing and
blowing as if he had been running a race. "Quick, boy, quick!" he was
whispering, "Kate's coming. A word in your ear first. Will you do me a
turn, 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 angel
herself, 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. Make
me 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 that
studdy 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 for
sure."

"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 own
unworthiness. "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 rest
for thinking of her. No, I'm not sleeping at night nor working reg'lar
in the day neither. Everything is telling of her, and everything is
shouting her name. It's 'Kate' in the sea, and 'Kate' in the river, and
the trees and the gorse. 'Kate,' 'Kate,' 'Kate,' it's Kate constant, and
I can't stand much more of it. I'm loving the girl scandalous, that's
the truth, Phil."

Pete paused, but Philip gave no sign.

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

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

Still Philip was silent. He was doing his best to swallow a lump in
his throat. His heart had begun to know itself. In the light of Pete's
confession he had read his own secret. To give the girl up was one
thing; it was another to plead for her for Pete. But Pete's trouble
touched him. The lump at his throat went down, and the fingers on the
wall 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 came
over him like a flood that had broken its dam. But Pete gripped him by
the 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; God
bless you, old fellow."

Philip began to roll about. "Tut, it's nothing," he said, with a stout
heart, and then he laughed a laugh with a cry in it. He could have said
no more without breaking down; but just then a flash of light fell on
them 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 young
figure framed like a silhouette by the light behind.

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

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

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




VII.

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

"It's a long way back to Ballure, Mrs. Cregeen," said Philip, popping
his 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 Nancy
Joe said the same, dropping her high-pitched voice perceptibly, and
Grannie said, also, "Right welcome, sir, if you'll not be thinking mane
to take pot luck with us. Potatoes and herrings, Mr. Christian; just a
Manxman'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'm
not, who should be, eh?'"

"And Manxman or no Manxman, what for should he turn up his nose at
herrings 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 lost
to cook them."

"'Deed, would they, Nancy," said Grannie. She was rolling the potatoes
into 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 be
thinking 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 and
fork, Nancy. We're no people for knife and fork to a herring, sir. And
a plate for Mr. Christian, woman; a gentleman usually likes a plate. Now
ate, sir, ate and welcome--but where's your friend, though?"

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

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

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

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

At that Philip laughed immoderately. It was a relief to drown with
laughter 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 to
do it, Mr. Cregeen--I've come in to speak for Pete. He's fond of your
daughter, 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 friend
Pete, a rough fellow, perhaps, and without much education, but the
best-hearted lad in the island. Come now, Cæsar, say the word, sir, and
make the young people happy."

He almost foundered over that last word, but Cæsar kept him up with a
searching 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 a
discerning man, Cæsar. What do you say, Grannie? It's Cæsar for knowing
a 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. "And
when he left me, he gave me imperence and disrespeck."

"But the lad meant no harm, father," said Grannie; "and hadn't you told
him 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 a
thought 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 a
right good lad though, and you've never had another that's been a patch
on him."

Cæsar screwed round to her and said severely, "Where there's geese
there's dirt, and where there's women there's talking." Then turning
back to Philip, he said in a tone of mock deference, "And may I
presume, sir--a little question--being a thing like that's general
understood--what's his fortune?"

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

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

Do what he would to crush it, Philip could not help feeling a sense of
relief. Fate was interfering; the girl was not for Pete. For the first
moment 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 his
resources of argument and persuasion. The wild idea occurred to him to
take Cæsar by force of the Bible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But you're wanting help yourself, father," said Grannie. "Yes, you are
though, 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?" said
Cæsar. "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 the
bas'es. But I can do without them. The Lord's blest me with enough. I'm
not for daubing grease on the tail of the fat pig."

"Just so, Cæsar," said Philip, "just so; you can afford to take a poor
man 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 his
mother, poor thing--it was wonderful."

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

Down to this point Philip had been torn by conflicting feelings. He
was no match for Cæsar in worldly logic, or at fencing with texts of
Scripture. The devil had been whispering at his ear, "Let it alone,
you'd better." But his time had come at length to conquer both himself
and Cæsar. Rising to his feet at Cæsar's last word, he cried in a voice
of wrath, "What? You call yourself a Christian man, and punish the child
for the sin of the parent! No name, indeed! Let me tell you, Mr. Cæsar
Cregeen, it's possible to have one name in heaven that's worse than none
at all on earth, and that's the name of a hypocrite."

So saying he threw back his chair, and was making for the door, when
Cæsar rose and said softly, "Come into the bar and have something."
Then, looking back at Philip's plate, he forced a laugh, and said, "But
you've turned over your herring, sir--that's bad luck." And, putting a
hand on Philip's shoulder, he added, in a lower tone, "No disrespeck
to 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 whitening
as he stepped from the door. Outside the porch a figure flitted past him
in the uncertain shadows with a merry trill of mischievous laughter.
He found Pete in the road, puffing and blowing as before, but from a
different cause.

"The living devil's in the girl for sartin," said Pete; "I can't get my
answer 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 ould
man, Phil?"

Then Phil told him of the failure of his mission--told him plainly and
fully but tenderly, softening the hard sayings but revealing the whole
truth. As he did so he was conscious that he was not feeling like one
who brings bad news. He knew that his mouth in the darkness was screwed
up into an ugly smile, and, do what he would; he could not make it
straight and sorrowful.

The happy laughter died off Pete's, lips, and he listened at first in
silence, and afterwards with low growls. When Phil showed him how his
poverty 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 he
muttered, "I'm on the ebby tide, Phil, that's it." And when Phil hinted
at what Cæsar had said of his mother and of the impediment of his own
birth, a growl came up from the very depths of him, and he scraped the
stones 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 you
such bad news," said Phil; but he knew the sickly smile was on his lips
still, 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've
done the best for me, I know that. My pocket's as low as my heart, and
it isn't fair to the girl, or I shouldn't be asking the ould man's lave
anyway."

He stood a moment in silence, crunching the wooden laths of the
garden fence like matchwood in his fingers, and then said, with sudden
resolution, "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 saying
in 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 will
take all you've got, man."

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

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

All this time Philip knew that hell was in his heart. The hand that
had let him loose when his anger got the better of him with Cæsar was
clutching at him again. Some evil voice at his ear was whispering, "Let
him 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 to
the stable-yard, and was watching the light in the house. It was moving
from window to window of the dark wall. "She's taking the father's
candle," 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 and
fumbled it in his hands. "God bless her," he murmured. He sank to his
knees 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 and
solemn around. Philip fell back and turned away his face.




VIII.

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

On that Kate herself came in, blushing a good deal, and fussing about
with great vigour. "Are you talking of the piggies, father?" she said
artfully. "How tiresome they are, to be sure! They came out into the
yard 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 the
clock. "Just wakeness of faith," he said over the clank of the chain as
the weights rose; "and no trust in God neither," he added, and then the
clock struck ten.

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

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

When the lamp was gone the girl was in the dark, save for the dim light
of 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 her
shoes and went to a closet in the wall. There she picked an apple out of
a barrel, and brought it to the fire and roasted it. Then, down on her
knees before the hearth, she took took two pinches of the apple and
swallowed them. After that and a little shudder she rose again, and
turned about to go to bed, backwards, slowly, tremblingly, with measured
steps, feeling her way past the furniture, having a shock when
she touched anything, and laughing to herself, nervously, when she
remembered what it was.

At the door of her father's room and Grannie's she called, with a quaver
in her voice, and a sleepy grunt came out to her. She reached one hand
through the door, which was ajar, and took the burning candle. Then she
blew 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 and
ripe apples, and very dainty in dimity and muslin. Two tiny windows
looked out from it, one on to the stable-yard and the other on to the
orchard. The late moon came through the orchard window, over the heads
of the dwarf trees, and the little white place was lit up from the floor
to the sloping thatch.

Kate went backwards as far as to the bed, and sat down on it She fancied
she heard a step in the yard, but the yard window was at her back, and
she would not look behind. She listened, but heard nothing more except a
see-sawing noise from the stable, where the mare was running her rope
in the manger ring. Nothing but this and the cheep-cheep of a mouse that
was 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 on
it like a broad blue sword speckled as with rust by the patchwork
counterpane.

She freed her hair from its red ribbon, and it fell in a shower about
her 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 and
the awakening, Kate thought she was startled by a handful of rice thrown
at her carriage on her marriage morning. The rattle came again, and
then she knew it was from gravel dashed at her bedroom window. As she
recognised 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 himself
outside, anyway."

It was Pete indeed. He was standing in the thin darkness under the
window, calling the girl's name out of the back of his throat, and
whistling to her in a sort of whisper. Presently he heard a movement
inside 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 then
out through the little dark frame came a head like a picture, with a
face all laughter, crowned by a cataract of streaming black hair, and
rounded off at the throat by a shadowy hint of the white frills of a
night-dress.

"Kate," said Pete again.

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

"And so it is, Kate," said Pete, "and he couldn't take rest without
spaking to you once again."

"Ah!" she said, looking back and covering her eyes, and thinking of
Black Tom and the fairies. But suddenly the mischief of her sex came
dancing into her blood, and she could not help but plague the lad. "Have
you 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 you
witched 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 turn
into 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 going
away--hundreds and thousands of miles away."

Then from the window came a tone of great awe, uttered with face turned
upward 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 a
fairy 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 angel
doesn't bite."

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

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

"From the island?" Kate gasped.

"Middling down in the mouth, too, and plagued out of his life between
the ruck of you," continued Pete; "but God forgive you all, you can't
help it."

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

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

"Kimberley! Not Kimberley, Pete!"

"Kimberley or Timbuctoo, what's it matter to the like of you? A man's
coming 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 why
are 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's
true 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't
going begging that she need marry a lad without a name."

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

"No matter."

"Whoever they are, you can tell them, if it's me they mean, that, name
or 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 can
go to your Kimberley. Yes, go, and welcome; and what's more--what's
more----"

But the voice of anger, in the half light overhead, broke down suddenly
into 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 on
the 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, could
see tears of laughter dancing in her eyes.

"Get down, Pete, or I'll shut the window, I will--yes, I will." And, to
show how much she was in earnest in getting out of his reach, she shut
up 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--more
safer, anyway."

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

"Others have done it, Kitty--why shouldn't I? Manx ones too--silver
kings and diamond kings, and the Lord knows what. No fear of me! When I
come back it's a queen you'll be, woman--my queen, anyway, with pigs and
cattle 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 turn
religious, 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 of
Genesis and Abraham, and his sons, and his cousins; I'll be coming up
at night making love to you at the cowhouse door like the Acts of the
Apostles."

"Well, that will be some sort of courting, anyway. But who says I'll
be wanting it? Who says I'm willing for you to go away at all with the
notion 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 the
girls----"

"My goodness! What do you say?"

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

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

"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't
you better fix the wedding-day and take out the banns, now that your
hand is in? I have got nothing to do with it, seemingly. Nobody asks
me."

"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 a
grey 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," said
Pete.

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 your
voice is like the throstle's!"

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

A dead white light came sweeping over the front of the house, and the
trees and the hedges, all quiet until then, began to shudder. Kate
shuddered 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. "The
moon'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! What
coorting there must be there!"

A cock crowed from under the hen-roost, the dog barked indoors, and the
mare 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 over
the mountains."

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

"Mr. Christian?"

"Call him Philip, Kate. He's as free as free. No pride at all. Let him
take 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 sleeve
and 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 she
said, "What's this? The mole on your finger still, Pete? You called me
a witch--now see me charm it away. Listen!--'Ping, ping, prash, Cur yn
cadley-jiargan ass my chass.'"

She was uttering the Manx charm in a mock-solemn ululation when a bough
snapped 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 in
its 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 his
knickerbockers. He had been standing alone among the dead brown fern,
the withering gorse, and the hanging brambles, gripping the apple-tree
and swallowing the cry that was bubbling up to his throat, but forcing
himself 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 and
whistled with the best of them.




X.

In the mists of morning, Grannie had awakened in her bed with the turfy
scraas of the thatch just visible above her, and the window-blind like
a 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 the
poor 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 our
big overshot wheel; we had, though. And when ould Parson Harrison sent
us 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 his
head.

"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 to
look 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 a
lit----"

"Then marry the lad yourself, woman, and have done with it," cried
Cæsar, 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 shore
before a fresh sea-breeze with a cold taste of the salt in it. A steamer
lying by the quay was getting up steam; trucks were running on her
gangways, the clanking crane over her hold was working, and there was
much shouting of name, and ordering and protesting, and general tumult.
On the after-deck stood the emigrants for Kimberley, the Quarks from
Glen 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 of
going.

Pete and Phil came up the quay, and were received by a shout of
incredulity 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 a
monkey-jacket over his blue guernsey. Except for a parcel in a red print
handkerchief, this was all his kit and luggage. He felt a little
lost amid all the bustle, and looked helpless and unhappy. The busy
preparations on land and shipboard had another effect on Philip. He
sniffed the breeze off the bay and laughed, and said, "The sea's calling
me, Pete; I've half a mind to go with you."

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

Philip had small mind for it, either, after the first rush of the salt
in his blood was over. He felt at some moments as if hell itself were
inside of him. What troubled him most was that he could not, for the
life of him, be sorry that Pete was leaving the island. Once or twice
since they left Sulby he had been startled by the thought that he hated
Pete. He knew that his lip curled down hard at sight of Pete's solemn
face. But Pete never suspected this, and the innocent tenderness of the
rough fellow was every moment beating it down with blows that cut like
ice and burnt like fire.

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

"Good-bye, Phil; you've been wonderful good to me--better nor anybody in
the world. I've not been much of a chum for the like of you, either--you
that's college bred and ought to be the first gentry in the island if
everybody had his own. But you shan't be ashamed for me, neither--no you
shan'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 a
common 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 for
you at home, boy; _he'll_ not forget you.'"

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

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

The first bell rang on the bridge, and the harbour-master shouted, "All
ashore, 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. Take
a slieu round now and then, and put a sight on her. She'll not give a
skute at the heirs the ould man's telling of; but them young drapers and
druggists, 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 your
hand and swear to it--it'll be more surer."

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

"Wait! There's another while your hand's in, Phil. Swear that nothing
and 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 me
more aisier. Whatever they do, whatever they say, friends and brothers
to the last?"

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

"Go and stand on the end of the pier, Phil--just aback of the
lighthouse--and I'll put myself at the stern. I want a friend's face to
be 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 was
under his feet. His flushed face was wet.

The throbbing of the funnels ceased, and all that could be heard was
the running of the tide in the harbour and the wash of the waves on the
shore. Across the sea the sun came up boldly, "like a guest expected,"
and down its dancing water-path the steamer moved away. Over the land
old 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 getting
kicked out of you, but you've been a good ould mother to me, and, God
help me, I'll come back to you yet. So long, little Mona, s'long? I'm
laving you, but I'm a Manxman still."

Pete had meant to take off his stocking cap as they passed the
lighthouse, and to dash the tears from his eyes like a man. But all that
Philip could see from the end of the pier was a figure huddled up at the
stern 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 he
had coaxed, she had scolded and he had laughed. But when Pete was gone
she remembered her old device, and began to play on Philip through the
memory of his father.

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

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

Philip gave his promise and kept it. When he returned after his day's
fishing the old lady was waiting for him in the little blue room which
she called her own. The sweet place was more than usually dainty and
comfortable that day. A bright fire was burning, and everything seemed
to be arranged so carefully and nattily. The table was laid with cups
and saucers, the kettle was singing on the jockey-bar, and Auntie
Nan herself, in a cap of black lace and a dress of russet silk with
flounces, was fluttering about with an odour of lavender and the light
gaiety of a bird.

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

And the sweet old thing answered, half nervously, half jokingly, "You
don't know? What a child it is, to be sure! So you don't remember what
day 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 to
be 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 a
nervous smile and a slight depression of the heart, she began on her
task.

"How the years roll on, Philip! It's twenty years since I gave you
my first birthday present I wasn't here when you were born, dear.
Grandfather had forbidden me. Poor grandfather! But how I longed to come
and wash, and dress, and nurse my boy's boy, and call myself an auntie
aloud! 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 young
person stepped in with a baby. A little too gay, poor thing, and that
was 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. She
nodded and smiled and lifted the muslin veil from the baby's face, and
said '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 back
to be a baby. I was trembling fit to drop and couldn't answer, and then
your mother saw grandfather, and before I could stop her she had touched
him on the shoulder. He stood with his bad ear towards us, and his sight
was failing, too, but seeing the form of a lady beside him, he swept
round, and bowed low, and smiled and raised his hat, as his way was with
all women. Then your mother held the baby up and said quite gaily, 'Is
it 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. Grandfather
had gone then--poor grandfather!--and I had knitted you a little soft
cap of white wool, with a tassel and a pink bow. Your mother's father
was living still--Capt'n Billy, as they called him--and when I put the
cap on your little head, he cried out, 'A sailor every inch of him!' And
sure 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, and
slapped his thigh, and blew a cloud of smoke from his long pipe and
cried again, 'This boy is for a sailor, I'm telling you.' You fell
asleep 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 there
already dusting the big shells on the mantelpiece. Poor Tom! I see him
yet. He dropped his long white hand over the cot-rail, pushed back the
little 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 was
belittling her and hers. 'These qualities!' she cried, and slashed the
duster and flounced out of the room, and one of the shells fell with
a 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. But
looking out on the sea,--the bay was very loud that day, I remember--he
said in his deep voice, that was like a mellow bell, and trembled
ratherly, 'It's not for nothing, Nannie, that the child has the forehead
of 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 and
gone, and the daisies cover him.'"

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

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

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

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

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 in
all ways, with the slow eyes of a seal and something of a seal's face as
well. But with his father's sprawling legs and his father's levity and
irony of manner and of voice--a Manxman disguised out of all recognition
of race, and apeing the fashionable follies of the hour in London.

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

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

"Perhaps," said Auntie Nan, looking simple and sympathetic, "perhaps
you've been longing for home. It must be a great trial to a young man
to live in London for the first time. That's where a young woman has the
advantage--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 live
long 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, but
your evenings will be quiet for study, I should think."

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

Uncle Peter came in hurriedly, with short, nervous steps. His hair as
well as his eyebrows was now white, his eye was hollow, his cheeks were
thin, 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 a
dying man.

"Ah! it's you, Anne! and Philip, too. Good morning, Philip. Give the
piano 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. A
little more than a year and a month between them."

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

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

"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 always
a 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 were
thinking, Peter--you see we know so little--now if his father had been
living----"

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 signified
assent.

"You are aware that a step like that costs money. How much have you got
to 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 just
gone 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 that
his course in London will cost me, one thing with another, more than a
thousand pounds."

Auntie Nan lifted her gloved hands in amazement.

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

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

"A better chance," the Ballawhaine continued, "of the few places open in
the island than if he were brought up at the Manx bar only, which would
cost 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 said
irritably. "These places are few, and Manx advocates are as thick as
flies in a glue-pot. For every office there must be fifty applicants,
but training counts for something, and influence for something, and
family for something."

Auntie Nan began to be penetrated as by a chill.

"These," said the Ballawhaine, "I bring to bear for Ross, that he may
distance 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 you
ask me to do? You come here and ask me to provide, prepare, and equip a
rival to my own son."

Auntie Nan had grasped his meaning at last.

"But gracious me, Peter," she said, "Philip is your own nephew, your own
brother'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 in
their gathering indignation. "His father is dead, and he is poor and
friendless," 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 the
money you are spending on Ross would have been Philip's this day if
things had gone different."

The Ballawhaine bit his lip. "Must I, for my sins, be compelled to put
an 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 the
house?"

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

The Ballawhaine was drumming on the edge of the open door. "You are
right, 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. "Try
Bishop Wilson's theological college, my friend; its cheap and----"

"Take your hand from him, Peter Christian," cried Auntie Nan. Her eyes
flashed, her cheeks were aflame, her little gloved hands were clenched.
"You made war between his father and your father, and when I would have
made peace you prevented me. Your father is dead, and your brother is
dead, and both died in hate that might have died in love, only for the
lies you told and the deceit you practised. But they have gone where the
mask 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, Peter
Christian, and they know you at last for what you are and always have
been--a deceiver and a thief."

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

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

"You have done wrong, Peter Christian, much wrong; you've done wrong all
your days, and whatever your motive, God will find it out, and on that
secret place he will bring your punishment. If it was only greed, you've
got your wages; but no good will they bring to you, for another will
spend them, and you will see them wasted like water from the ragged
rock. And if it was hate as well, you will live till it comes back
on 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 and
never will, or else he has a heart to match your own in wickedness, and
no bowels of compassion at him either."

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

"Turn me out of the house, will you?" she cried. "The place where I
lived fifteen years, and as mistress, too, until your evil deeds made
you master. Many a good cry I've had that it's only a woman I am, and
can do nothing on my own head. But I would rather be a woman that hasn't
a roof to cover her than a man that can't warm to his own flesh and
blood. Don't think I begrudge you your house, Peter Christian, though
it was my old home, and I love it, for all I'm shown no respect in it I
would have you to know, sir, that it isn't our houses we live in after
all, but our hearts--our hearts, Peter Christian--do you hear me?--our
hearts, 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 old
thing, too gentle to hurt a fly, turned on him also with the fury of a
wild-cat.

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

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

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

"Oh dear! oh dear!" she cried. "I've been too hasty. After all, he is
your 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 once
spoken since they left Ballawhaine.

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

He sought out the best known of the Manx advocates, a college friend of
his father's, and said to him, "I've sixty pounds a year, sir, from my
mother's father, and my aunt has enough of her own to live on. Can I
afford 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 wise
man 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 a
familiar duty in the Isle of Man, and he who discharges it is known by
a 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, introduced
by the young man to persuade the parents of the young woman that he is a
splendid fellow, with substantial possessions or magnificent prospects,
and entirely fit to marry her. But he has a secondary function, less
frequent, though scarcely less familiar; and it is that of lover by
proxy, or intended husband by deputy, with duties of moral guardianship
over 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 Philip
and Kate themselves. Philip grew to be grave and wondrous solemn, for
assuming the tone of guardian lifted his manners above all levity. Kate
became suddenly very quiet and meek, very watchful and modest, soft of
voice and most apt to blush. The girl who had hectored it over Pete and
played little mistress over everybody else, grew to be like a dove under
the eye of Philip. A kind of awe fell on her whenever he was near. She
found it sweet to listen to his words of wisdom when he discoursed, and
sweeter still to obey his will when he gave commands. The little wistful
head was always turning in his direction; his voice was like joy-bells
in her ears; his parting how under his lifted hat remained with her as
a dream until the following day. She hardly knew what great change had
been 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; give
it lave."

"Give it fiddlesticks," said Nancy Joe. "Give it brimstone and treacle
and 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 so
and so." That was their way of keeping up the recollection of Pete's
existence; and the uses they put poor Pete to were many and peculiar.

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

"Isn't it the funniest thing in the world, Philip?" giggled Kate from
the back of the door, and a moment afterwards she was standing alone
with 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; there
can't be much harm in calling you what Pete calls you, can there? But
then--"

"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, something
delicious; so sweet, so tender, they could only laugh as if some one had
tickled 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 on
the edge of a precipice.

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

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

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

"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. "Being
qualtagh 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 doorway
into the dark, "I'll be standing at the door of the dairy."

Philip began to feel alarm, and resolved to take for the future a
lighter view of his duties. He would visit "The Manx Fairy" less
frequently. As soon as the Christmas holidays were over he would devote
himself 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, and
only ends for good on the 6th of January. In the country places, which
still 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 hearth
in front of the fire, put something into each of them as a symbol of a
trade, and troop out to the stairs. Then the boys change the order of
the mugs, and the girls come back blindfold, one by one, to select their
goggans. According to the goggans they lay hands on, so will be the
trades of their husbands.

At this game, played at "The Manx Fairy" on the last night of Philip's
holiday, Csesar being abroad on an evangelising errand, Kate was
expected 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--but
there'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, "I
mean--that is--you know--what about Pete?"

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

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

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 be
away.




III.

One morning in the late spring there came to Douglas a startling and
most 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 the
way on plighted troths and broken pledges. Ross was there in lacquered
boots, light kid gloves, frock coat, and pepper and salt trousers,
leaning with elbow on the counter, that he might talk to Kate, who
was serving. Philip had never before seen her at that task, and his
indignation was extreme. He was more than ever sure that Grannie was a
simpleton and Cæsar a brazen hypocrite.

Kate nodded gaily to him as he entered, and then continued her
conversation with Ross. There was a look in her eyes that was new to
him, 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 opportunity
and put in with some cutting remark. So, at Cæsar's invitation and
Grannie'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, my
dear. His rooms in St. James's Street are full of them every night. All
sorts, you know--featherweights, and heavy-weights, and greyhounds. And
the faces! My goodness, you should see them. Such worn-out old images.
Knowledge boxes all awry, mouths crooked, and noses that have had the
upper-cut. But good men all; good to take their gruel, you know. Monty
will have nothing else about him. He was Tom Spring's packer. Never
heard of Tom Spring? Tom of Bedford, the incorruptible, you know, only
he fought cross that day. Monty lost a thousand, and Tom keeps a public
in 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 should
you think? Cleopatra--but you ought to be there. I must be getting off
myself very soon. There's a supper coming off next week at Handsome
Honey'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 was
long and embarrassing, and, for want of better conversation, Philip
asked 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'm
getting a bit of a skute into something, though. See yonder? They're
calling his father a miser. The man's racking his tenants and starving
his land. But I believe enough the young brass lagh (a weed) is choking
the ould grain."

Cæsar, as he spoke, tipped his thumb over his shoulder in the direction
of Ross, and, seeing this, Ross interrupted his conversation with Kate
to 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're
telling 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, and
conventions, 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 I
know. 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 cut
had 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 all
the work of his evening, and the whole result of his errand.

Cæsar was waiting for him in the porch. His face was white, and it
twitched visibly. It was plain to see that the natural man was fighting
in Cæsar. "Mr. Christian, sir," said he, "are you the gentleman that
came 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 be
catching 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 was
monstrous unreasonable that day. Seemed to think I was coming back here
to put my shoulder out for your high bailiffships and bum-bailiffships
and heaven knows what. You're welcome to the lot for me, Philip. That
girl's wonderful, though. It's positively miraculous, too; she's the
living picture of a girl of my friend Montague's. Eyes, hair, that
nervous movement of the mouth--everything. Old man looked glum enough,
though. Poor little woman. I suppose she's past praying for. The old
hypocrite will hold her like a dove in the claws of a buzzard hawk till
she throws herself away on some Manx omathaun. It's the way with half
these pretty creatures--they're wasted."

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

"I do; because a girl like this can never marry the right man. The man
who is worthy of her cannot marry her, and the man who marries her
isn't worthy of her. It's like this, Philip. She's young, she's pretty,
perhaps beautiful, has manners and taste, and some refinement. The
man 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 fit
for--daren't marry her; it would be social suicide."

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

Ross laughed. "Do you know I thought old Jeremiah was at you in the
corner 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 mountain
road, two rooms, a cowhouse, a crock, a dresser, a press, a form, a
three-legged stool, an armchair, and a clock with a dirty face, hanging
on a nail in the wall. Milking, weeding, digging, ninepence a day, and a
can of buttermilk, with a lump of butter thrown in. Potatoes, herrings,
and barley bonnag. Year one, a baby, a boy; year two, another baby, a
girl; year three, twins; year four, barefooted children squalling,
dirty house, man grumbling, woman distracted, measles, hooping-cough; a
journey at the tail of a cart to the bottom of the valley, and the awful
words 'I am the----'"

"Hush man!" said Philip. They were passing Lezayre churchyard. When they
had left it behind, he added, with a grim curl of the lip, which was
lost 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--what
matter?"

"And then?"

"Every one for himself and God for us all, my boy. She's as happy as the
day 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 laughed
again. "Yes, it's a fact, old Jeremiah _has_ been at you, Philip. Poor
little 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, and
to name that girl, foolish as she is, in the same breath with your
women--But here, listen to me. Best tell you now, so there may be no
mistake and no excuse. Miss Cregeen is to be married to a friend of
mine. I needn't say who he is--he comes close enough to you at all
events. 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 promised
wife. 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 through
it giggling.




IV.

The following evening found Philip at "The Manx Fairy" again. Ross was
there 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 tortured
him. Her enjoyment of the man's jests was almost uproarious. She was
signalling to him and peering up at him gaily. Her conduct disgusted
Philip. It seemed to him an aggravation of her offence that as often as
he caught the look of her face there was a roguish twinkle in the eye on
his side, and a deliberate cast in his direction. This open disregard
of the sanctity of a pledged word, this barefaced indifference to the
presence of him who stood to represent it, was positively indecent. This
was what women were! Deceit was bred in their bones.

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

At a burst of fresh laughter and a shot of the bright eyes, Philip
surged up to his feet, thrust himself between Ross and Kate, turned his
back on him and his face to her, and said in a peremptory voice, "Come
into 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 but
her 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 with
you 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 or
his credit or his honor, and you should not encourage him."

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

"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 and
took 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 gather
from his conversation what his life and companions are? Of course it's
nothing 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 look
sideways.

"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 the
first 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 man
packing----"

"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, but
Philip was back at "The Manx Fairy" the next evening also. He found a
saddle-horse linked to the gate-post and Ross inside the house with a
riding-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 unpleasant
passage 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 girls
will be girls. What's a word or a look or a laugh when you're young and
have a face that's fit for anything."

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

Nancy Joe came from the dairy at that moment. "Gracious me I did you see
that 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 was
engaged in some narration whereof the only words that reached the
kitchen were _I know_ and _I know_ repeated frequently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"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 tear
myself away. Why not? Can't you guess? No? Not a notion? I would go
to-morrow--Kitty, a word in your ear----"

"I believe in my heart that man is for kissing her," said Cæsar. "If he
does, 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?" he
asked.

"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 man
that isn't going to see her fooled. Your hat to your head, sir. You'll
be 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, and
keep 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 thank
the Lord for restraining grace! Spare me? If you had said as much
five-and-twenty years ago, sir, your head would have gone ringing
against 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. At
the 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 followed
Philip out of the house.

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

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

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




V.

The two young men went on without a word. Philip walked with long
strides three paces in front, with head thrown back, pallid face and
contracted features, mouth firmly shut, arms stiff by his side, and
difficult and audible breathing. Ross slouched behind with an air of
elaborate carelessness, his horse beside him, the reins over its head
and round his arm, the riding-whip under his other arm-pit, and both his
hands deep in the breeches pockets. There was no road the way they
went, but only a cart track, interrupted here and there by a gate, and
bordered 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 flat
land, the sun was setting over a streak of gold on the sea. They had
left behind them the smell of burning turf, of crackling sticks,
of fish, and of the cowhouse, and were come into the atmosphere of
flowering gorse and damp scraa soil and brine.

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

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

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

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

"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 foot
with 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 you
don'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's
abroad----"

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 said
tauntingly, "I wouldn't distress myself, man. Daresay I'll be done with
the girl before the fellow----"

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

Ross flung away his whip. "If I must, I must," he said, and then threw
the 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 went
up to London I've learnt a thing or two. I've stood up before men that
can strip a picture; I've been opposite talent and I can peck a bit, but
I'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 like
willow boughs. Philip in shirt and knickerbockers, with long fair hair,
quivering face, and delicate figure. It was strength and some skill
against nerve alone.

Like a rush of wind Philip came on, striking right and left, and was
driven 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 his
nether lip.

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

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

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

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

Philip flung himself on his man a third time, and fell more heavily than
before, 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 old
grandmother," said Ross.

But his contempt was abating; he was growing uneasy; Philip was before
him 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 his
blow, dodged, feinted; they gripped, swinging to and fro; there was a
struggle, 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 voice
trembled, 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 his
throat. 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 craven
and shifty look. His blows fell like scorching missiles, but Philip took
them like a rock scoured with shingle, raining blood like water, but
standing 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 whipped
cur. With a blob of foam on his lips he came up, collecting all his
strength, and struck Philip a blow on the forehead that fell with the
sound of a hammer on a coffin.

"Are you done?" he snuffled.

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

"This man means to kill me," mumbled Ross. He looked round shiftily, and
said, "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 was
now 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 the
twilight, a flight of rooks were screaming overhead. Blows were no more
heard. Ross gripped Philip in a venomous embrace, and dragged him on
to one knee. Philip rose, Ross doubled round his waist, pushing him
backward, and fell heavily on his breast, shouting with the growl of a
beast, "You'll fight me, will you? Get up, get up!"

Philip did not rise, and Ross began dragging and lunging at him with
brutal ferocity, when suddenly, where he bent double, a blow fell on his
ear from behind, another and another, a hand gripped his shirt collar
and 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 over
Philip.

He was unconscious. She lifted his head on to her lap, and, lost to all
shame, to all caution, to all thought but one thought, she kissed him on
the 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, but
Kate fired back with a glance like an arrow, and said, screaming like a
sea-gull, "If you touch him again I'll strangle you."

Ross caught a glimpse of Philip's face, and he was terrified. Going to a
turf pit, he dipped both hands in the dub, and brought some water. "Take
this," 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 and
pleading 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 meditated
flight.

"Is he better yet?"

"What's it to you, you coward?" said Kate, with a burning glance. She
went on with her work: "Come then, dear, come, come now."

Philip opened his eyes in a vacant stare, and rose on his elbow. Then
Kate fell back from him immediately, and began to cry quietly, being all
woman now, and her moral courage gone again in an instant.

But the moral courage of Mr. Ross came back as quickly. He began to
sneer and to laugh lightly, picked up his riding-whip and strode over to
his 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 came
streaming 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 he
struggled 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 knot
about the gorse stump, and as he liberated the beast he flogged it back
till it flew around him. Then he vaulted to the saddle, tugged at the
curb, and the horse reared. "Down," he cried with an oath, and lashed
brutally 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 his
hot throat, and said, "Oh, you can make your mind easy about _him_, if
your other man fights for you like that you'll do. Thought you'd have
three 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 to
take 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 of
you."

So saying, he burst into wild, derisive laughter, flogged his horse on
the ears and the nose, shouted "Down, you brute, down!" and shot off at
a gallop across the open Curragh.

Philip and Kate stood where he had left them till he had disappeared in
the mist rising off the marshy land, and the hud of his horse's hoofs
could be no more heard. Their heads were down, and though their arms
were locked, their faces were turned half aside. There was silence
for some time. The girl's eyelids quivered; her look was anxious and
helpless. Then Philip said, "Let us go home," and they began to walk
together.

Not another word did they speak. Neither looked into the other's eyes.
Their entwined arms slackened a little in a passionless asundering, yet
both felt that they must hold tight or they would fall. It was almost
as if Ross's parting taunt had uncovered their hearts to each other, and
revealed to themselves their secret. They were like other children of
the garden of Eden, driven out and stripped naked.

At the bridge they met Cæsar, Grannie, Nancy Joe, and half the
inhabitants of Sulby, abroad with lanterns in search of them.

"They're here," cried Cæsar. "You've chastised him, then! You'd bait
his 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 days
of grace--but, praise the Lord for His restraining hand, the very minute
my anger was up He crippled me in the hip with rheumatics. But what's
this?" 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 the
angels, 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 his
skin? And doesn't the man come from Christian Ballawhaine!"

"If it comes to that, though, haven't we all come from Adam?" said
Grannie.

"Yes; and from Eve too, more's the pity," said Cæsar.




VI.

For some time thereafter Philip went no more to Sulby. He had a
sufficient excuse. His profession made demand of all his energies. When
he was not at work in Douglas he was expected to be at home with his
aunt at Ballure. But neither absence nor the lapse of years served
to lift him out of the reach of temptation. He had one besetting
provocation to remembrance--one duty which forbade him to forget
Kate--his pledge to Pete, his office as _Dooiney Molla_. Had he not
vowed to keep guard over the girl? He must do it. The trust was a sacred
one.

Philip found a way out of his difficulty. The post was an impersonal and
incorruptible go-between, so he wrote frequently. Sometimes he had news
to send, for, to avoid the espionage of Cæsar, intelligence of Pete came
through him; occasionally he had love-letters to enclose; now and then
he had presents to pass on. When such necessity did not arise, he found
it agreeable to keep up the current of correspondence. At Christmas he
sent Christmas cards, on Midsummer Day a bunch of moss roses, and even
on St. Valentine's Day a valentine. All this was in discharge of his
duty, and everything he did was done in the name of Pete. He persuaded
himself that he sank his own self absolutely. Having denied his eyes the
very sight of the girl's face, he stood erect in the belief that he was
a true and loyal friend.

Kate was less afraid and less ashamed. She took the presents from Pete
and wore them for Philip. In her secret heart she thought no shame of
this. The years gave her a larger flow of life, and made out of the
bewitching girl a splendid woman, brought up to the full estate of
maidenly beauty.

This change wrought by time on her bodily form caused the past to seem
to her a very long way off. Something had occurred that made her a
different being. She was like the elder sister of that laughing girl
who had known Pete. To think of that little sister as having a kind of
control over her was impossible. Kate never did think of it.

Nevertheless, she held her tongue. Her people were taken in by the
episode of Ross Christian. According to their view, Kate loved the man
and still longed for him, and that was why she never talked of Pete.
Philip was disgusted with her unfaithfulness to his friend, and that was
the reason of his absence. She never talked of Philip either, but they,
on their part, talked of him perpetually, and fed her secret passion
with his praises. Thus for three years these two were like two prisoners
in neighbouring cells, very close and yet very far apart, able to hear
each other's voices, yet never to see each other's faces, yearning to
come together and to touch, but unable to do so because of the wall that
stood between.

Since the fight, Cæsar had removed her from all duties of the inn, and
one day in the spring she was in the gable house peeling rushes to make
tallow candles when Kelly, the postman, passed by the porch, where Nancy
Joe was cleaning the candle-irons.

"Heard the newses, Nancy?" said Kelly. "Mr. Philip Christian is let off
two years' time and called to the bar."

Nancy looked grave. "I'm sure the young gentleman is that quiet and
studdy," 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 always
saying it. 'Deed I am, though, but there's ones here that won't have it
at 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 the
postman passed on.

Kate came gliding out with a brush in her hand. "What was the postman
saying?"

"That--Mr.--Philip--Christian--has been passing--for an advocate," said
Nancy deliberately.

Kate's eyes glistened, and her lips quivered with delight; but she only
said, 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's
away!"

Kate shelled her rush, and said, with a sigh and a sly look, "I'm afraid
you think a deal too much of him, Nancy."

"Then I'll be making mends," said Nancy, "for some that's thinking a
dale 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, banging
her irons, she added, "I'm not much of a woman for a man myself. They're
only poor helpless creatures anyway, and I don't approve of them. But
if I was for putting up with one of the sort, he wouldn't have legs and
arms like a dolly, and a face like curds and whey, and coat and trousers
that 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 scoldings
were joy-bells in her ears. She took silent delight in provoking these
attacks. They served her turn both ways, bringing her delicious joy at
the praise of Philip, and at the same time preserving her secret.




VII.

Latter that day Cæsar came in from the mill with the startling
intelligence 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 grey
hair under it. Kate herself had disappeared like a flash of light; but
as Philip dismounted at the gate, looking taller, and older, and paler,
and more serious, but raising his cap from his fair head and smiling a
smile like sunshine, she was coming leisurely out of the porch with a
bewitching 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 catch
of quick breath and nervous salutations.

"I'm going round to the nests," she said. "I suppose you'll step in to
see mother."

"Time enough for that," said Philip. "May I help you with the eggs
first? 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 ready
to begin, so to speak."

They walked round to the stackyard, and he tied up his horse and gave it
hay. Then, while they poked about for eggs on hands and knees among the
straw, under the stacks and between the bushes, she said she hoped he
would have success, and he answered that success was more than a hope to
him now--it was a sort of superstition. She did not understand this, but
looked up at him from all fours with brightening eyes, and said, "What a
glorious thing it is to be a man!"

"Is it?" said Philip. "And yet I remember somebody who said she wasn't
sorry to be a girl."

"Did I?" said Kate. "But that was long ago. And _I_ remember somebody
else 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 matronly
sigh, burying her face in a nest where a hen was clucking and two downy
chicks were peeping from her wing.

They went through to the orchard, where the trees were breaking into
eager 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--and
besides--read it aloud, Philip."

With her basket of eggs on one arm, and the other hand on the
outstretched arm of an apple-tree, she waited while he read:

"Dearest Kitty,--How's yourself, darling, and how's Philip, and
how's Grannie? I'm getting on tremendous. They're calling me Captain
now--Capt'n Pete. Sort of overseer at the Diamond Mines outside
Kimberley. Regular gentleman's life and no mistake. Nothing to do but
sit under a monstrous big umbrella, with a paper in your fist, like a
chairman, while twenty Kaffirs do the work. Just a bit of a tussle
now and then to keep you from dropping off. When a Kaffir turns up a
diamond, you grab it, and mark it on the time-sheet against his name.
They've got their own outlandish ones, but we always christen them
ourselves--Sixpence, Seven Waistcoats, Shoulder-of-Mutton, Twopenny
Trotter--anything you like. When a Kaffir strikes a diamond, he gets a
commission, and so does his overseer. I'm afraid I'm going to be getting
terrible 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 smuggle
a stone when you're not looking, they will. Then they sell it to the
blackleg Boers, and you've got to raise your voice like an advocate to
get it back somehow. But the Boers can't do no harm to you with their
fists at all--it's playing. They're a dirty lot, wonderful straight like
some of the lazy Manx ones, especially Black Tom. When they see us down
at the river washing, they say, 'What dirty people the English must be
if they have to wash themselves three times a day--we only do it once a
week.' When a Kaffir steals a stone we usually court-martial him, but I
don'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 does
anything 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. When
the 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, 'Shut
your faces, men, and let a poor chap sleep;' but they never twig the
darkness of my meaning. I'll only be wanting a bit of quiet for thinking
of.... 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 thin
boughs overhead, like silver fish falling from the herring-net. Taking
the letter, she glanced over the close--

"darlin Kirry how is the mackral this saison and is the millin doing
middling and I wonder is the hens all layin and is the grace gone out
of the mares leg yet and how is the owl man and is he still playin hang
with the texes. Theer is a big chap heer that is strait like him he hath
swallowed the owl Book and cant help bring it up agen but dear Kirry no
more at present i axpect to be Home sune bogh, to see u all tho I dont
no azactly With luv your luving swateart peat."

When she had finished the letter, she turned it over in her fingers, and
gave 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 as
that?" said Philip.

"Did he write it himself, think you?" said Kate.

"He signed it, anyway, and no doubt indited it too; but perhaps one of
the Gills boys held the pen."

She coloured a little, slipped the letter down her dress into her
pocket, 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 was
vexed with him that he did not see that all this matter of Pete was
foolishness. It was absurd to think of a girl marrying a man whom she
had known when he was a boy. But Philip was trying to keep the bond
sacred, and so she made her terms with it. She used Pete as a link to
hold Philip.

After the lapse of some months, in which Philip had not been seen at
Sulby, she wrote him a letter. It was to say how anxious she had been at
the length of time since she had last heard from Pete, and to ask if he
had any news to relieve her fears. The poor little lie was written in
a trembling hand which shook honestly enough, but from the torment of
other feelings.

Philip answered the letter in person. Something had been speaking to him
day and night, like the humming of a top, finding him pretexts on which
to go; but now he had to make excuses for staying so long away. It was
evening. 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 the
rattle 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 told
me. 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 hay
floated down from the loft, and the odour of the cow's breath came in
gusts as she turned her face about. Kate sat on the milking-stool close
by the ewer, and her head, on which she wore a sun-bonnet, she leaned
against 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! So
simple, 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 the
manure heap outside began to snort their way home. Kate turned her head
so that the crown of the sun-bonnet was toward Phillip, and said--

"Oh, dear! Can there be anything so terrible as marrying somebody you
don'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 rattled
like hail.

In the straw behind. Kate there was a tailless Manx cat with three
tailed kittens, and Philip began to play with them. Being back to back
with Kate, he could keep his countenance.

"This old Horney is terrible for switching," said Kate, over her
shoulder. "Don't you think you could hold her tail?"

That brought them face to face again. "It's so sweet to have some one to
talk 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 it
is 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 the
adjoining stall; and as they crossed the haggard, Philip carrying the
pail, she scattered great handfuls of oats to a cock and his two hens as
they cackled their way to roost.

"You'll be sure to come again soon, Philip, eh? It's so sweet to have
some one to remind me of----" but Pete's name choked her now. "Not that
I'm likely to forget him--now is that likely? But it's such a weary time
to 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, and
a sense of stifling hypocrisy. He had felt like a fool. Kate must have
thought 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 round
by her love for Pete. He would come no more.




IX.

Philip held to his resolution for three months, and grew thin and
pale. Then another letter came from Pete--a letter for himself, and he
wondered what to do with it. To send it by post, pretending to be ill
again, 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 stamping
it. Philip read the letter in a loud voice to the old people in the
kitchen, and the soft thumping and watery swishing ceased in the damp
place adjoining. Pete was in high feather. He had made a mortal lot
of money lately, and was for coming home quickly. Couldn't say exactly
when, for some rascally blackleg Boers, who had been corrupting his
Kaffirs and slipped up country with a pile of stones, had first to be
followed and caught. The job wouldn't take long though, and they might
expect to see him back within a twelvemonth, with enough in his pocket
to 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 the
last night's milking. He was sorry there was nothing but a message for
her this time. Had she answered Pete's former letters? No, she had not.

"I must be writing soon, I suppose," she said, blowing the yellow
surface. "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? Not
properly? No?"

Philip pretended not to understand. Kate's laugh echoed in the empty
cream 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 must
see so many now. Oh, it would be delicious to write a long story to
Pete. Where you met--in church, naturally. What she's like--fair, of
course. 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 she
wished to hear, she added mournfully. "Don't say that, though. You can't
think what pleasure you are denying me, and yourself, too. Take some
poor girl to your heart, Philip. You don't know how happy it will make
you."

"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 Philip
also. 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 the
market-day, as she stood by the tipped-up gig, selling her butter. There
was a chatter of girls all round as he bowed and went on. This vexed
her, 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 to
Kirk Michael to visit the old Deemster, who was ill. Would he not take
a lift? He hesitated, half declined, and then got into the gig. As she
settled herself comfortably after this change, he trod on the edge of
her dress. At that he drew quickly away as if he had trodden on her
foot.

She laughed, but she was vexed; and when he got down at "The Manx
Fairy," saying he might call on his way back in the evening, she had no
doubt 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 birds
about them in the trees, when Philip returned home by Sulby. He saw Kate
coming down the glen road, driving two heifers with a cushag for switch
and flashing its gold at them in the horizontal gleams of sunset. She
had recovered her good-humour, and was swinging along, singing merry
snatches as she came--all life, all girlish blood and beauty.

She pretended not to see him until they were abreast, and the heifers
were 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't
believe you have a heart at all."

"You don't?"

"No; and that he couldn't have left anybody better to look after me
all these years, because you haven't eyes or ears or a thought for any
living 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 opened
the gate of the orchard, slipped through, and made for the door of the
dairy, 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 with
pleasure, and yet overwhelmed with shame. Sometimes he told himself that
he was no better than a Judas, and sometimes that Pete might never
come back. The second thought rose oftenest. It crossed his mind like a
ghostly gleam. He half wished to believe it. When he counted up the odds
against Pete's return, his pulse beat quick. Then he hated himself. He
was in torment. But under his distracted heart there was a little chick
of frightened joy, like a young cuckoo hatched in a wagtail's nest.

After many days, in which no further news had come from Pete, Kate
received this brief letter from Philip:

"I am coming to see you this evening. Have something of grave importance
to tell you."

It was afternoon, and Kate ran upstairs, hurried on her best frock, and
came down to help Nancy to gather apples in the orchard. Black Tom
was there, new thatching the back of the house, and Cæsar was making
sugganes (straw rope) for him with a twister. There was a soft feel of
autumn in the air, pigeons were cooing in the ledges of the mill-house
gable, and everything was luminous and tranquil. Kate had climbed to
the fork of a tree, and was throwing apples into Nancy's apron, when the
orchard gate clicked, and she uttered a little cry of joy unawares as
Philip entered. To cover this, she pretended to be falling, and he ran
to help her.

"Oh, it's nothing," she said. "I thought the bough was breaking. So it's
you!" Then, in a clear voice, "Is your apron full, Nancy? Yes? Bring
another basket, then; the white one with the handles. Did you come Laxey
way by the coach? Bode over, eh? Nancy, do you really think we'll have
sugar enough for all these Keswicks?"

"Good evenin', Mr. Christian, sir," said Cæsar. And Black Tom, from the
ladder 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 up
likewise, 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 first
touch--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 a
blacksmith's muscles, but it'll go rotten as fast as the least lil one
of the lot. It's taiching us a lesson, sir, that we all do fall--big
mountains as aisy as lil cocks. This world is changeable."

Philip was not listening, but looking up at Kate, with a face of
half-frightened tenderness.

"Do you know," she said, "I was afraid you must be ill again--your
apron, 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 your
letter."

"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 his
hand. "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 me
make sure. Is there no mistake? Is it true?"

"Too true."

"I can bear the truth now--but afterwards--to-night--tomorrow--in the
morning 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 his
his 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 poor
girl. My brave girl!"

She clung to him like a terrified child; the tears came from under her
eyelids tightly closed; the flood-gates of four years' reserve went down
in a moment, and she kissed him on the lips.

And, throbbing with bliss and a blessed relief from four years hypocrisy
and 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 and
come close to listen, and Black Tom had dropped from the thatch. Nancy
ran back with the basket, and Grannie came hurrying from the house.

Cæsar lifted both hands solemnly. "Now, you that are women, control
yourselves," said he, "and listen while I spake. Peter Quilliam's dead
in Kimberley."

"Goodness mercy!" cried Grannie.

"Lord alive!" cried Nancy.

And the two women went indoors, threw their aprons over their heads, and
rocked themselves in their seats.

"Aw boy veen! boy veen!"

Kate came tottering in, ghostly white, and the women fell to comforting
her, thereby making more tumult with their soothing moans than Kate with
her crying.

"Chut'! Put a good face on it, woman," said Black Tom. "A whippa of a
girl like you will be getting another soon, and singing, 'Hail, Smiling
Morn!' with the best."

"Shame on you, man. Are you as drunk as Mackillya?" cried Nancy. "Your
own grandson, too!"

"Never another for Kate, anyway," wept Grannie. "Aw boy veen, aw boy
veen!"

"Maybe he had another himself, who knows?" said Black Tom. "Out of sight
out 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 five
minutes. In the midst of all stood Cæsar, solemn and expansive.

"He turned his herring yonder night when he left goodbye to the four of
us," he said. "My father did the same the night he was lost running rum
for Whitehaven, and I've never seen a man do it and live."

"It's forgot at you father," wept Grannie. "It was Mr. Philip that
turned 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 of
half-a-dozen women who were gathered around her. "I dreamt it the
night 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 to
his 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 grass
perisheth, and the worm devoureth, and well all be in heaven with him
soon."

"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-top
time--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 the
bar-room peered through at Philip with awe.

"I felt like a father for the lad myself," said Cæsar, "he was always
my 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't
tell me what I was, tell me what I am.' And Pete was that civil with the
tongue--a civiller young man never was."

Black Tom _tsht_ and spat. "Why, you were shouting out of mercy at the
lad, and knocking him about like putty. He wouldn't get lave to live
with 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 her
black ready?"

"Sunday week, then, or Sunday fortnight, or the Sunday after the Melliah
(harvest-home)," said Cæsar; "the crops are waiting for saving, but a
dead 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 think
you're going to trate them," he muttered.

Philip was asked for particulars, and he brought out a letter. Jonaique
Jelly, John the Clerk, and Johnny the Constable had come in by this
time. "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 as
a plate of crackers and a drop of tay going? Is it to be a totaller's
funeral 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 for
all 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, and
hitherto served as his letter-writer.

"'Respected Sir,'" read Jonaique, "'with pain and sorrow I write these
few 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 talked
of 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, "nor
the full of your fist of ha'pence either. What's the use of getting
grand-childers?"

Cæsar waved his hand. "Go on, Jonaique. It's bad when the deceitfulness
of riches is getting the better of a man."

"Where was I? Oh, 'good money ------' 'Yet he was never for taking joy
in 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 that
lad 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, boy
veen, boy bogh!"

"What does the nightingale care for a golden cage when he can get a
twig?" said Cæsar.

"Is the boy's chest home yet?" asked John the Clerk.

"There's something about it here," said Jonaique, "if people would only
let a man get on."

"It's mine," said Black Tom.

"We'll think of that by-and-bye," said Cæsar, waving his hand to
Jonaique.

"'He had packed his chest for going, when four blacklegs, who had been
hanging round the compound, tempting and plaguing the Kaffirs, made off
with a bag of stones. Desperate gang, too; so nobody was running to be
sent after them. But poor Peter, being always a bit bull-necked, was
up to the office in a jiffy, and Might he go? And off in chase in the
everin' with the twenty Kaffirs of his own company to help him--not much
of a lot neither, and suspected of dealing diamonds with the blacklegs
times; but Peter always swore their love for him was getting thicker and
stronger every day like sour cream. "The captain's love has been their
theme, and shall be till they die," said Peter.'"

"He drank up the Word like a thirsty land the rain," said Cæsar. "Peter
Quilliam and I had mortal joy of each other. 'Good-bye, father,' says
he, 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 Kaffirs
came 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 the
muzzle of a gun from the neck of a gin-bottle. So the big man of the
gang 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 equal
Peter with their hands, they could bate him with their toes, and the
last they heard of him he was racing behind them with the shots of the
blacklegs 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, sitting
with head on his hand by the ingle, grew hot and cold with the thought
that after all there was no actual certainty that Pete was dead. Nobody
had seen him die, nobody had buried him; the story of the returned
Kaffirs might be a lie to cover their desertion of Pete, their betrayal
of him, or their secret league with the thieving Boers. At one awful
moment Philip asked himself how he had ever believed the letter. Perhaps
he had _wanted_ to believe it.

Nancy Joe touched him on the shoulder. "Kate is waiting for a word
with you alone, sir," she said, and Philip crossed the kitchen into
the little parlour beyond, chill with china and bowls of sea-eggs and
stuffed 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," moaned
Grannie. "And calling it Good Hope of all names! Died of a bullet in his
head, too, aw dear, aw dear! Discussion of the brain it's like. And look
at them black-heads too, as naked as my hand, I'll go bail. I hate the
nasty 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 angels
in 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 of
the 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 the
devil of greed is let loose on you."

"Cæsar Cregeen, don't make a nose of wax of me," bawled Tom, "and don't
think because you're praiching a bit that religion is going to die with
you. Your head's swelling tre-menjous, and-you won't be able to sleep
soon without somebody to tickle your feet. You'll be forgiving sins
next, and taking money for absolution, and these ones will be making
a pope of you and paying you pence. Pope Cæsar, the publican, in his
chapel hat and white choker! But that chiss is mine, and if there's law
in 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 the
spirit'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 the
tips of her fingers. It was a pair of old shoes, covered with dirt and
cobwebs.

"These were his wearing boots," she said, and she put them on the
counter.

"Dear heart, yes, the very ones," said Grannie. "Poor boy, they'd move a
heart of stone to see them. Something to remember him by, anyway. Many
a mile his feet walked in them; but they're resting now in Abraham's
bosom."

Then Cæsar's voice rose loud over the doleful tones around the counter.
"'Vital Spark of Heavenly Flame'--raise it, Mr. Niplightly. Pity we
haven'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 the
Constable.

"Pitch it in altoes, then," said Cæsar. "I'm a bit of a base myself, but
not 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 and
quivering mouth. The low drone of many voices came to her through the
floor. Then a dull silence and one voice, and Nancy Joe coming and going
between 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 the
glass.

"Well, it popped out," said Nancy.

Kate went down, with a look of softened sorrow, and Philip, without
lifting his eyes, began bemoaning Pete. They would never know his
like--so simple, so true, so brave; never, never.

He was fighting against his shame at first seeing the girl after that
kiss, 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 had
one great comfort--he had been a loyal friend; such fidelity, such
constancy, such affection, forgetting the difference of place, of
education--everything.

Philip looked up at last, and there was the lovely face with its beaming
eyes. 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 same
reason 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 the
hymn that was being sung inside:

"Thy glory why didst Thou enshrine In such a clod of earth as mine, And
wrap Thee in my clay."




XII.

At that moment day was breaking over the plains of the Transvaal. The
bare 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 few
log-houses at long distances and wooden beacons like gibbets to define
the Boer farms. No sound in the transparent air, no cloud in the
unveiling sky; just the night creeping off in silence as if in fear of
awakening the sleeping morning.

Across the soulless immensity a covered waggon toiled along with four
horses rattling their link chains, and a lad sideways on the shaft
dangling his legs, twiddling the rope reins and whistling. Inside the
waggon, under a little window with its bit of muslin curtain, a man lay
in the agony of a bullet-wound in his side, and an old Boer and a
woman stood beside him. He was lying hard on the place of his pain and
rambling in delirium.

"See, boys? Don't you see them?"

"See what, my lad?" said the Boer simply, and he looked through the
waggon window.

"There's the head-gear of the mines. Look! the iron roofs are
glittering. And yonder's the mine tailings. We'll be back in a jiffy. A
taste 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 him
with his unconscious fingers.

"Poor boy! he's eager to get to the coast But will he live to cover
another 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 was
nothing on the horizon between desolate land and dominating sky but a
waste looking like a chaos of purple and green, where no bird ever sang
and no man ever lived, and God Himself was not.




XIII.

"She loves me! She loves me! She loves me!" The words sang in Philip's
ears like a sweet tune half the way back to Ballure. Then he began to
pluck at the brambles by the wayside, to wound his hand by snatching
at the gorse, and to despise himself for being glad when he should have
been in grief. Still, he was sure of it; there was no making any less of
it. She loved him, he was free to love her, there need be no hypocrisy
and no self-denial; so he wiped the blood from his fingers, and crept
into the blue room of Auntie Nan.

The old lady, in a dainty cap with flying streamers, was sitting by
the fireside spinning. She had heard the news of Pete as Philip passed
through to Sulby, and was now wondering if it was not her duty to
acquaint Uncle Peter. The sweet and natty old gentlewoman, brought up in
the odour of gentility, was thinking on the lines of poor Bridget, Black
Tom when dying under the bare scraas, that a man's son was his son in
spite of law or devil.

She decided against telling the Ballawhaine by remembering an incident
in the life of his father. It was about Philip's father, too; so Philip
stretched his legs from the sofa towards the hearth, and listened to the
old Auntie's voice over the whirr of her wheel, with another voice--a
younger voice, an unheard voice--breaking: in at the back of his ears
when 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 make
your mother his wife, he never believed there was a parson on the island
would 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 in
the plate, and the hot broth splashed on my hand, I remember. But Peter
said, 'It's past praying for, sir,' and then grandfather cried, 'No, I
tell you no.' 'But I tell you yes, sir,' said Peter. 'Maughold Church
yesterday morning before service.' Then grandfather lost himself, and
called 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 father
for all, and I've a right to your forgiveness.' All the same, he
wouldn't be satisfied until he had seen the register, and I had to go
with him to the church."

"Poor old grandfather!"

"The vicar in those days was a little dotty man named Kissack, and it
was 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, then
follow Me,' only the people declared he always wanted to go first."

"Shocking, Philip. It was evening when we drove up to Maughold, and the
little parson was by the Cross, ordering somebody with a cane. 'I am
told you married my son yesterday; is it true?' said grandfather. 'Quite
true,' 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 his
voice was thick. 'Can't you believe me?' said the vicar. 'The register,'
said grandfather. Then the vicar turned the key in the church door and
strutted up the aisle, humming something. I tried to keep grandfather
back even then. 'What's the use?' I said, for I knew he was only
fighting against belief. But, hat in hand, he followed to the Communion
rail, 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 and
leaned 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't
face it; so he rubbed his glasses and leaned over the book again. Oh
dear! he was like one who looks down the list of the slain for the name
he prays he may not find. But the name was there, too surely: 'Thomas
Wilson Christian... to Mona Crellin... signed Wm. Crellin and something
Kissack.'"

Philip's breath came hot and fast.

"The little vicar was swinging his cane to and fro on the other side of
the 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-born
son and ruined him.' 'Nonsense, sir,' said the vicar. 'Your son was of
age, and his wife had the sanction of her father. Was I to go round by
Ballawhaine for permission to do my duty as a clergyman?' 'Duty!' cried
grandfather. 'When a young man marries, he marries for heaven or for
hell. Your duty as a clergyman!' he cried, till his voice rang in the
roof. 'If a son of yours had his hand at his throat, would you call
it my duty as Deemster to hand him a knife.' 'Silence, sir,' said the
vicar. Remember where you stand, or, Deemster though you are, you shall
repent it.' 'Arrest me for brawling, will you?' cried grandfather, and
he snatched the cane out of the vicar's hand and struck him across the
breast. 'Arrest me now,' he said, and then tottered and stumbled out of
the 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 father
had stood before him; he was doing what his father had done; he was
in danger of his father's fate! Where was his head that he had never
thought of this before?

It was hard--it was terrible. Now that he was free to love the girl, he
realised what it meant to love her. Nevertheless he was young, and he
rebelled, he fought, he would not deliberate, The girl conquered in his
heart that night, and he lay down to sleep.

But next morning he told himself, with a shudder, that it was lucky he
had gone no farther. One step more and all the evil of his father's
life 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 love
began to creep into his heart in disguise. He reminded himself that he
had promised to go on Sunday, and that it would be unseemly to break off
the acquaintance too suddenly, lest the simple folks should think he had
borne with them throughout four years merely for the sake of Pete. But
after Sunday he would take a new turn.

He found Kate dressed as she had never been before. Instead of the loose
red bodice and the sun-bonnet, the apron and the kilted petticoat, she
wore a close-fitting dark green frock with a lace collar. The change was
simple, but it made all the difference. She was not more beautiful, but
she was more like a lady.

It was Sunday evening, and the "Fairy" was closed. Csesar and Grannie
were at the preaching-house, Nancy Joe was cooking crowdie for supper,
and Kate and Philip talked. The girl was quieter than Philip had ever
known her--more modest, more apt to blush, and with the old audacity of
word 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 a
woman can do nothing to raise herself. Isn't it hard? Whatever the place
where she was born in, she must remain there all her days. She can see
her 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, not
that; 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 in
the 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 locked
to 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 low
voice. "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 thought
of this as at something supernatural.

Cæsar and Grannie came back, both in fearful outbursts of Sunday
clothes. Nevertheless Cæsar's eyes, after the first salutation with
Philip, fixed themselves on Kate's unfamliar costume.

"Such worldly attire!" he muttered, following the girl round the kitchen
and blowing up his black gloves. "This caring for the miserable
body that will one day be lowered into the grave! What does the Book
say?--put my tall hat on the clane laff, Nancy. 'Let it not be the
outward adorning of putting on of apparel, but let it be the hidden man
of the heart.'"

"But sakes alive, father," said Grannie, loosening a bonnet like a
diver's helmet, "if it comes to that, what is Jeremiah saying, 'Can a
maid forget her ornaments?'"

"It's like she can if she hasn't any to remember," said Cæsar. "But
maybe the prophet Jeremiah didn't know the mothers that's in now."

"Chut, man! Girls are like birds, and the breed comes out in the
feathers," 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 the
rasonable 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 was
for telling you of a job."

Some of the fishermen of Ramsey had been over on Saturday. Their season
was a failure, and they were loud in their protests against the trawlers
who were destroying the spawn. Cæsar had suggested a conference at
his house on the following Saturday of Ramsey men and Peel men, and
recommended Philip as an advocate to advise with them as to the best
means to put a stop to the enemies of the herring. Philip promised to be
there, and then went home to Auntie Nan.

He told himself on the way that Kate was completely above her
surroundings, and capable of becoming as absolute a lady as ever lived
on the island, without a sign of her origin in look or speech, except
perhaps the rising inflexion in her voice which made the talk of the
true Manxwoman the sweetest thing in the world to listen to.

Auntie Nan was sitting by the lamp, reading her chapter before going to
bed.

"Auntie," said Philip, "don't you think the tragedy in the life of
father was accidental? Due, I mean, to the particular characters of
grandfather and poor mother? Now, if the one had been less proud, less
exclusive, or the other more capable of rising with her husband----"

"The tragedy was deeper than that, dear; let me tell you a story," said
Auntie Nan, laying down her book. "Three days after your father left
Ballawhaine, old Maggie, the housemaid, came to my side at supper and
whispered that some one was wanting me in the garden. It was Thomas. Oh
dear! it was terrible to see him there, that ought to have been the
heir of everything, standing like a stranger in the dark beyond the
kitchen-door."

"Poor father!" said Philip.

"'Whist, girl, come out of the light,' he whispered. 'There's a purse
with twenty pounds odd in my desk upstairs; get it, Nan, here's the
key.' I knew what he wanted the money for, but I couldn't help it; I got
him 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 despise
you for this marriage,' I said. 'Better they should than I should
despise 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 his
head in a little place like this after a marriage like that.' 'All the
worse for the place,' said he, 'if it stains a man's honour for acting
honourably.'"

"Father was an upright man," interrupted Philip. "There's no question
about it, my father was a gentleman."

"'She must be a sweet, good girl, and worthy of you, or you wouldn't
marry her,' said I to father; 'but are you sure that you will be
happy and make her happy?' We shall have each other, and it is our own
affair,' said father."

"Precisely," said Philip.

"'But if there is a difference between you now,' I said, 'will it be
less when you are the great man we hope to see you some day?' 'A man is
not 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 mentioned
between us,' said he. 'Your father is old, and can't live long,' I
pleaded. 'He wants me to behave like a scoundrel,' he answered. 'Why
that, 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's
in 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 the
grass. 'Who's that?' I said. 'Who should it be,' cried father, 'but the
same spy again. I'll shake the life out of him yet as a terrier would
a rat. No use, girl,' he shouted hoarsely, facing towards the darkness,
'they're driving me to destruction.' 'Hush!' I said, and covered his
mouth with my hands, and his breath was hot, like fire. But it was
useless. He was married three days afterwards."

Philip resolved to see Kate no more. He must go to Sulby on Saturday
to meet the fishermen, but that would be a business visit; he need not
prolong it into a friendly one. All the week through he felt as if his
heart would break; but he resolved to conquer his feelings. He pitied
himself somewhat, and that helped him to rise above his error.




XV.

On Saturday night he was early at Sulby. The bat-room was thronged with
fishermen in guernseys, sea-boots, and sou'-westers. They were all on
their feet together, twisting about like great congers on the quay,
drinking a little and smoking a great deal, thumping the table, and
all talking at once. "How've you done, Billy?"--"Enough to keep away the
divil and the coroner, and that's about all."--"Where's Tom
Dug?"--"Gone to Austrilla."--"Is Jimmy over to-day?"--"He's away
to Cleveland."--"Gough, bless me, every Manx boy seems to be going
foreign."--"That's where we'll all be after long and last, if we don't
stop these southside trawlers."

Philip went in and was received with goodwill and rough courtesy, but no
man abated a jot of his freedom of action or liberty of speech, and
the thumping and shouting were as loud as before. "Appeal to the
Receiver-General."--"Chut! an ould woman with a face winking at you
like a roast potato."--"Will we go to the Bishop, then?"--"A whitewashed
Methodist with a soul the size of a dried pea."--"The Governor is the
proper person," said Philip above the hubbub, "and he is to visit Peel
Castle next Saturday afternoon about the restorations. Let every Manx
fisherman who thinks the trawl-boats are enemies of the fish be there
that day. Then lay your complaint before the man whose duty it is to
inquire into all such grievances; and if you want a spokesman, I'm ready
to speak for you."--"Bravo!"--"That's the ticket!"

Then the meeting was at an end; the men went on with stories of the
week's fishing, stories of smugglers, stories of the Swaddlers (the
Wesleyans), stories of the totalers (teetotallers), and Philip made
for the door. When he got there, he began to reflect that, being in
the house, he ought to leave good-night with Cæsar and Grannie. Hardly
decent not to do so. No use hurting people's feelings. Might as well
be civil. Cost nothing anyway. Thus an overpowering compulsion in the
disguise of courtesy drew him again into Kate's company; but to-morrow
he 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 listening
with both ears and open mouth to the profane stories being told in the
bar-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 it
belong to here?"

"Aw, Kirry, of coorse," said Grannie, "and sticking that close to it of
an everin that you haven't a chance to put a word on her."

"Vanity, sir, vanity, all vanity," said Cæsar; and again he listened
hard.

Philip's eyes began to blink. "Teaching herself French, is she? Has she
been doing it long, Grannie?"

"Long enough, sir, three years or better, since poor Pete went away
maybe; and at the books for ever, grammars and tex' books, and I don't
know 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 larning
themselves foreign languages at all. For my part, there isn't one of
them bates the Manx itself for plainness. And aren't we reading, when
the Lord wanted to bring confusion on Noah and his disobedient sons and
grandsons at going up the Tower of Babel, he made them spake different
tongues?"

"Good thing too," snapped Cæsar, "if every poor man was bound to carry
his wife up with him."

Philip's eyes were streaming, and, unobserved, he put the lesson-book to
his lips. He had guessed its secret. The girl was making herself worthy
of 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 curiosity
conquered his propriety and he ventured into the bar-room, Grannie came
and went between the counter and the fishermen, Nancy clicked about from
dairy to door, and Kate and Philip were left alone.

"You were wrong the other night," she said. "I have been thinking it
over, and you were quite, quite wrong."

"So?"

"If a man marries a woman beneath him, he stoops to her, and to stoop to
her is to pity her, and to pity her is to be ashamed of her, and to be
ashamed 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 as
much as the woman descends, the man rises, and so-----don't you see?"

She faltered and stopped, and Philip said, "Aren't you talking
nonsense,' Kate?"

"Indeed, sir!"

Kate pretended to be angry at the rebuff, and pouted her lips, but her
eyes were beaming.

"There is neither above nor below where there is real liking," said
Philip. "If you like any one, and she is necessary to your life, that is
the sign of your natural equality. It is God's sign, and all the rest is
only man's book-keeping."

"You mean," said Kate, trying to keep a grave mouth, "you mean that if
a 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'm
sure you're wrong, Philip. I am, though. Yes, indeed I am. But it's no
use arguing. Not against you. Only----"

The glorious choir of love-birds in her bosom were singing so loud that
she could say no more, and the irresistible one had his way. After a
while, 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 place
where a man could not marry the woman he loved if she chanced to be born
in the manger instead of the stable loft. Perdition to the land where a
man could not live unless he was a skunk or a cur. Thank God the world
was wide.

That night he said to Auntie Nan, "Auntie, why didn't father go away
when he found the tide setting so strongly against him?"

"He always meant to, but he never could," said Auntie Nan. "A woman
isn't like a man, ready to pitch her tent here to-day and there
to-morrow. We're more like cats, dear, and cling to the places we're
used to, if they're only ruins of tumbling stones. Your mother wasn't
happy in the Isle of Man, but she wouldn't leave it. Your father
wouldn't go without her, and then there was the child. He was here for
weal or woe, for life or death. When he married his wife he made the
chain that bound him to the island as to a rock."

"It wouldn't be like that with Kate," thought Philip. But did Auntie
know anything? Had somebody told her? Was she warning him? On Sunday
night, 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 affair
either," she said. "It was the night he died. Your mother had been
unwell and father had sent for me. It was a dark night, and late, very
late, and they brought me down the hill from Lewaige Cottage with a
lantern. Father was sinking, but he _would_ get out of bed. We were
alone together then, he and I, except for you, and you were asleep in
your cot by the window. He made straight for it, and struggled down on
his knees at its side by help of the curtains. 'Listen,' he said, trying
to whisper, though he could not, for his poor throat was making noises.
You were catching your breath, as if sobbing in your sleep. 'Poor little
boy, he's dreaming,' said I; 'let me turn him on his side.' 'It's not
that,' said father; 'he went to sleep in trouble.'"

"I remember it, Auntie," said Philip. "Perhaps he had been trying to
tell me something."

"'My boy, my son, forgive me, I have sinned against you,' he said, and
he 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 little
face. I remember you rubbed your nose with your little fist, but you did
not waken. Then I helped him back to bed, and the table with the
medicine 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 were
hovering 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 the
past and the dead. It was founded in vanity, in the desire for glory and
success. Only let a man renounce the world and all that the world can
give, and he can be true to himself, to his heart's impulse, to his
honour, and to his love. He would deliberate no longer. He despised
himself for deliberating. If was the world against Kate, let the world
go to perdition.




XVII.

On Saturday afternoon he was at Peel. It was a beautiful day; the sun
was 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 sails
and hammocks of nets and lines of mollags (bladders) up to the mast
heads. A flight of seagulls were fishing in the mud, and swirling
through the brown wings of the boats and crying. A flag floated over
the ruins of the castle, the church-bells were ringing, and the
harbour-masters were abroad in best blue and gold buttons.

On the tilting-ground of the castle the fishermen had gathered, sixteen
hundred strong. There were trawlers among them, Manx, Irish, and
English, prowling through the crowd, and scooping up the odds and ends
of gossip as their boats on the bottom scraped up the little fish.
Occasionally they were observed by the herring-fishers, and then there
were high words and free fights. "Taking a creep round from Port le
Murrey are you, Dan?"--"Thought I'd put a sight on Peel to-day."--"Bad
for your complexion, though; might turn it red, I'm thinking."--"Strek
me with blood will you? I'd just like you to strek me, begough. I'd put
a Union Jack on your face as big as a griddle."

The Governor came, an elderly man, with a formidable air, an aquiline
nose, and cheeks pitted with small-pox. Philip introduced the fishermen
and told their grievance. Trawling destroyed immature fish, and so
contributed to the failure of the fisheries. They asked for power to
stop 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 the
Governor, and the meeting ended with cheers for His Excellency, shouts
for Philip, and mutterings of contempt from the trawlers. "Didn't think
there was a man on the island could spake like it."--"But hasn't your
fancy-man been rubbing his back agen the college?"--"I'd take lil tacks
home if I was yourself, Dan."--"Drink much more and it'll be two feet
deep inside of you."

Philip was hurrying away under the crumbling portcullis, when a
deputation 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, a
word 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's
houlding it in trust for something. The ould island's wanting a big
man ter'ble bad, and it hasn't seen the like since the days of your own
grandfather. Good everin, and thank you--good everin!"

With that the rough fellows dismissed him at the ferry steps, and he
hastened to the market-place, where he had left his horse. On putting
up, he had seen Cæsar's gig tipped up in the stable-yard. It was now
gone, and, without asking questions, he mounted and made towards Ramsey.

He took the old road by the cliffs, and as he cantered and galloped, he
hummed, and whistled, and sang, and slashed the trees to keep himself
from thinking. At the crest of the hill he sighted the gig in front, and
at Port Lady he came up with it. Kate was driving and Cæsar was nodding
and dozing.

"You've been having a great day, Mr. Christian," said Cæsar. "Wish I
could 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 castle
and keep them from sea for debts of drink, and they're taking a
mane advantage. Not a penny did I get to-day, sir, and many a yellow
sovereign 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 plazed
to hear it,' says he; 'come in and I'll give you a good glass of rum
for it.' And Dan took the rum for taking the pledge, and there he was as
drunk as Mackilley in the castle this morning."

Philip listened as he rode, and a half-melancholy, half-mocking
expression played on his face. He was thinking of his grandfather, old
Iron Christian, brought into relation with his mother's father, Capt.
Billy Ballure, of the dainty gentility of Auntie Nan and the unctuous
vulgarity of the father of Kate.

Cæsar grumbled himself to sleep at last, and then Philip was alone with
the girl, and riding on her side of the gig. She was quiet at first, but
a 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 brown
shadows on the road in front; the twilight deepened, the night came
down, the moon rose in their faces, and the stars appeared. They could
hear the tramp of the horses' hoofs, the roll of the gig wheels, the
wash and boom of the sea on their left, and the cry Of the sea-fowl
somewhere beneath. The lovelinese and warmth of the autumn night stole
over 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 the
moonlight? 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 like
soft 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 the
girl's neck.

"Take care," she cried merrily; "your horse is shying."

He gazed at her face, lit up in the white moonlight. "How bright and
happy you seem, Kate!" he said with a shiver; and then he laid one hand
on the gig rail.

Her eyelids quivered, her mouth twitched, and she answered gaily, "Why
not? Aren't you? You ought to be, you know. How glorious to succeed? It
means 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 he
replied, in a faltering voice, "That may be true of the big world over
yonder, Kate, but it isn't so in a little island like ours. To succeed
here is like going up the tower of Castle Rushen with some one locking
the doors on the stone steps behind you. At every storey the room
becomes 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--over
the battlements with a crash."

She looked up at him with startled eyes, and his own were large and full
of trouble. They were going through Kirk Michael by the house of the
Deemster, who was ill, and both drew rein and went slowly. Some acacias
in the garden slashed their broadswords in the night air, and a windmill
behind stood out against the moon like a gigantic bat. The black shadow
of 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 in
with clouds as of blood and vapours of stifling heat. A steamship was
rolling in a heavy swell, under winds that were as hot as gusts from an
open furnace. Under its decks a man lay in an atmosphere of fever and
the sickening odour of bandages and stale air. Above the throb of the
engines and the rattle of the rudder chain he heard a step going by his
open door, and he called in a feeble voice that was cheerful and almost
merry, 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 and
stoking up for you like mad."

As the ship rolled, the green reflection of the water and the red light
of the sky shot alternately through the porthole and lit up the berth
like firelight flashing in a dead house.

"Ask the boys if they'll carry me on deck, sir--just for a breath of
fresh air."

The sailors came and carried him. "You can do anything for a chap like
that."

The big sun was straight overhead, weighing down on their shoulders, and
there was no shelter anywhere, for the shadows were under foot.

"Slip out the sails, lads, and let's fly along. Wish I could tumble up
the rigging myself and look out from the yards same as a gull, but I'm
only an ould parrot chained down to my stick."

They left him, and he gazed out on the circle of water and the vapour
shaking over it like a veil. The palpitating air was making the circle
smaller every minute, but the world seem cruelly large for all that. He
was looking beyond the visible things; he was listening deeper than the
wash of the waves; he was dreaming, dreaming. Apparitions were floating
in the heat-clouds over him. Home! Its voices whispered at his ear, its
face peered into his eyes. But the hot winds came up and danced round
him; the air, the sea, the sky, the whole world, the utter universe
seemed afire; his eyes rolled upwards to his brow; he almost choked and
fainted.

"Carry him below, poor fellow! He's got a good heart to think he'll ever
see home again. He'll never see it."

Half-way down the companion-ladder he opened his eyes with a look of
despair. 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 great
enemy was Philip's success. This was rapid and constant. She wanted to
rejoice in it; she struggled to feel glad and happy, and even proud. But
that was impossible. It was ungenerous, it was mean, but she could not
help it--she resented every fresh mark of Philip's advancement.

The world that was carrying Philip up was carrying him away. She would
be 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, among
ladies in drawing-rooms, beautiful, educated, clever, able to talk of
many things beyond her knowledge. Then she looked at herself, and
felt vexed with her hands, made coarse by the work of the farm; at her
father, and felt ashamed of the moleskin clothes he wore in the mill; at
her home, and flushed deep at the thought of the bar-room.

It was small and pitiful, she knew that, and she shuddered under the
sense of being a meaner-hearted girl than she had ever thought. If
she could do something of herself to counteract the difference made
by Philip's success, if she could raise herself a little, she would be
content to keep behind, to let him go first, to see him forge ahead of
her, and of everybody, being only in sight and within reach. But she
could do nothing except writhe and rebel against the network of female
custom, or tear herself in the thorny thicket of female morals.

Harvest had begun; half the crop of Glenmooar had been saved, a third
was in stook, and then a wet day had come and stopped all work in the
fields. On this wet day, in the preaching-room of the mill, amid forms
and desks, with the cranch of the stones from below, the wash of the
wheel from outside, and the rush of the uncrushed corn from above, Cæsar
sat rolling sugganes for the stackyard, with Kate working the twister,
and going backward before him, and half his neighbours sheltering from
the 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 this
morning," 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 serious
matter, 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 the
devil, 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 Dempsters
time 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 the
postman.

"You wouldn't get lave in this house, anyway," said Cæsar.

"Aw, a right gentleman and no pride at all," said the postman. "As free
and free with a poor man, and no making aisy either. I've nothing agen
him myself. No, but a bit young for a Dempster, isn't he? Just a taste
young, 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 yonder
woman. She's through though, and what more natural----"

The rope stopped again, and Kate's voice, hard and thick, came from the
farther 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 is
gone!"

"That girl wants a doctor," muttered Jonaique.

"The man couldn't drag the woman up after him," began the clerk. "It's
always 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, and
that being so, her son has now a chance of being Deemster."

"So he has," shouted Cæsar, "and not second Dempster only, but first
Dempster itself in time, and go on with the twister."

Kate laughed loudly, and cried, "Why don't you keep it up when your
hand's in? First Deemster Christian, and then Sir Philip Christian, and
then Lord Christian, and then----But you're talking nonsense, and you're
a pack of tattlers. There's no thought of making Philip Christian a
Deemster, and no hope of it and no chance of it, and I trust there never
will be."

So saying, she flung the twister on the floor and rushed out of the
mill, 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 and
the mouth of Satan."

That she who loved Philip to distraction should be the first to abuse
and 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 merely
that the conventions of life, its usages, its manners, and its customs
were putting worlds between them. The pathos of the girl's position
was no accidental thing. It was a deeper, older matter; it was the same
to-day as it had been yesterday and would be to-morrow; it began in the
garden of Eden and would go on till the last woman died---it was the
natural 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's
will, on Philip's word. She saw Philip slipping away from her, but she
could 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 a
woman! How wretched to be a woman! How cruel!

But ah! the dear delicious thought! It came stealing up into her heart
when the red riot was nearly killing her. What a glorious thing it
was to be a woman after all! What a powerful thing! What a lovely and
beloved thing! To rule the king, being the slave, was sweeter than to be
the king himself. That was woman's place. It was where heaven itself
had put her from the beginning until now. What weapons had it given
her! Beauty! Charm! Love! The joy of it! To be the weak and overcome the
strong! To be nothing in the battle of life, and yet conqueror of all
the 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, the
farmer gives a supper to his farm-people, and to the neighbours who
have helped him to cut and house it. This supper, attended by simple and
beautiful ceremonies, is called the Melliah. The parson may be asked to
it, and if there is a friend of position and free manners, he also is
invited. Cæsar's Melliah fell within a week of the rope-making in the
mill, and partly to punish Kate, partly to honour himself, he asked
Philip to be present.

"He'll come," thought Kate with secret joy, "I'm sure he'll come;" and
in this certainty, when the day of Melliah came, she went up to her room
to 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 her
life, and gain or lose everything. It was to be a battle royal between
all the conventions of life, all the network of female custom, all the
inferiority 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 tears
from 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 had
washed up the dinner things, the fire-irons were polished, the boots and
spare whips were put up on, the lath, the old hats like lines of heads
on a city gate were hung round the kitchen walls, the hearthrug was
down, the turf was piled up on the fire, the kettle was singing from the
slowrie, and the whole house was taking its afternoon nap.

Kate's bedroom looked over the orchard and across the stackyard up the
glen. She could see the barley stack growing in the haggard; the laden
cart coming down the glen road with the driver three decks up over the
mare, now half smothered and looking suddenly little, like a snail under
the gigantic load; and beyond the long meadow and the Bishop's bridge,
the busy fields dotted with the yellow stooks and their black shadows
like a castle's studded doors.

When she had thrown off her blue-black dress to wash her arms and
shoulders and neck were bare. She caught sight of herself in the glass,
and laughed with delight. The years had brought her a fuller flow of
life. She was beautiful, and she knew it. And Philip knew it too, but
he should know it to day as he had never known it before. She folded her
arms in their roundness over her bosom in its fulness and walked up and
down the little room over the sheep-skin rugs, under the turfy scraas,
glowing in the joy of blooming health and conscious loveliness. Then she
began to dress.

She took from a drawer two pairs of stockings, one black and the other
red, 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, with
countless buttons, two toecaps like two flowers, and an upward curve
like the arm of a glove. She tried them on, bent back and forward, but
relinquished them with a sigh in favour of plain shoes cut under the
ankles 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 top
was ridiculous, and the roll behind was formal. She attempted long waves
over the temples. It was impossible. With a lash-comb she dragged her
hair back to its natural lawlessness, and when it fell on her forehead
and over her ears and around her white neck in little knowing rings
that came and went, and peeped out and slid back, like kittens at
hide-and-seek, she laughed and was content.

From a recess covered by a shawl running on a string she took down her
bodice. It was a pink blouse, loose over the breast, like hills of
red sand on the shore, and loose, too, over the arms, but tight at
the wrist. When she put it on it lit up her head like a gleam from the
sunset, and her eyes danced with delight.

The skirt was a print, with a faint pink flower, the sash was a band of
cotton of the colour of the bodice, and then came the solemn problems
of the throat. It was round, and full, and soft, and like a tower. She
would have loved to leave it bare, but dared not. Out of a drawer under
the looking-glass she took a string of pearls. They were a present from
Kimberley, and they hung over her fingers a moment and then slipped
back. A white silk handkerchief, with a watermark, was chosen instead.
She tied it in a sailor's knot, with the ends flying loose, and the
triangular corner lying down her back.

Last of all, she took out of a box a broad white straw hat, like
an oyster shell, with a silver-grey ribbon, and a sweeping ostrich
feather.. 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 to
her hair, stood back from the glass to see it, and finally tore it off
and sent it skimming on to the bed.

The substitute was her everyday sun-bonnet, which had been lying on the
floor by the press. It was also of pale pink, with spots on its print
like little shells on a big scallop. When she had tossed it over her
black curls, leaving the strings to fall on her bosom, she could not
help 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 was
so full of play; it lent itself to so many moods. It could speak; it
could say anything. She poked it to a point, as girls do when the sun
is hot, by closing its mouth over the tip of her nose, leaving only a
slumberous dark cave visible, through which her black eyes gleamed and
her eyelashes shone. She tied the strings under her chin, and tipped
the bonnet back on to her neck, as girls will when the breeze is cool,
leaving her hair uncovered, her mouth twitching merrily, and her head
like a nymph-head in an aureole. She took it off and tossed it on her
arm, the strings still knotted, swinging it like a basket, then wafting
it like a fan, and walking as she did so to and fro in the room, the
floor creaking, her print frock crinkling, and she herself laughing with
the thrill of passion vibrating and of imagined things to come.

Then she went downstairs with a firm and buoyant step, her fresh lithe
figure aglow with young blood and bounding health.

At the gate of the "haggard" she met Nancy Joe coming out of the
washhouse.

"Lord save us alive!" exclaimed Nancy. "If I ever wanted to be a man
until this day!"

Kate kissed and hugged her, then fled away to the Melliah field.




XXI.

Philip, in Douglas, had received the following communication from
Government House:--

"His Excellency will be obliged to Mr. Philip Christian if he will
not leave the island for the present without acquainting him of his
destination."

The message was a simple one: it said little, and involved and
foreshadowed nothing, but it threw Philip into a condition of great
excitement. To relieve his restlessness by giving way to it, he went out
to walk. It was the end of the tourist season, and the _Ben-my-Chree_
was leaving the harbour. Newsboys, burrowing among the crowds on
the pier to sell a Manx evening paper, were crying, "Illness of the
Deemster--serious reports."

Philip's hair seemed to rise from his head. The two things came together
in his mind. With an effort to smudge out the connection he turned back
to his lodgings, looking at everything that his eyes fell on in the
rattling streets, speaking to everybody he knew, but seeing nothing and
hearing 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 Nan
had put in his hand when he was leaving Ramsey. It was a bundle of his
father's old letters to his sister cousin, written from London in the
days when he was studying law and life was like the opening dawn. "The
ink is yellow now," said Auntie Nan; "it was black then, and the hand
that 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 of
Sulby.

Philip read his father's letters until it was far into the night, and he
had gone through every line of them. They were as bright as sunshine, as
free as air, easy, playful, forcible, full of picture, but, above all,
egotistical, proud with the pride of intellectuality, and vain with the
certainty of success. It was this egotism that fascinated Philip. He
sniffed it up as a colt sniffs the sharp wind. There was no need to make
allowances for it. The castles which his father had been building in
the air were only as hovels to the golden palaces which his son's eager
spirit was that night picturing. Philip devoured the letters. It was
almost 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, and
sometimes he put his open hand over it as he sat close under the lamp on
a table at his left and read on:--

... "Heard old Broom in the House last night, and today I lunched
with him at Tabley's. They call him an orator and the king of
conversationalists. He speaks like a pump, and talks like a bottle
running water. No conviction, no sincerity, no appeal. Civil enough to
me though, and when he heard that father was a Deemster, he told me the
title meant Doomster, and then asked me if I knew the meaning of 'House
of Keys,' and said it had its origin in the ancient Irish custom
of locking the muniment chests with twenty-four keys, whereof each
counsellor kept one. When he had left us Tabley asked if he wasn't a
wonderful man, and if he didn't know something of everything, and I
said, 'Yes, except the things of which I knew a little, and of them he
knew nothing.'... My pen runs, runs. But, Nannie, my little Nannie, if
this is what London calls a great man, I'll kick the ball like a toy
before 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 were
those immediately above me. I seem to see him coming down past my door
in that wonderful plum-coloured coat. And sitting here at night I think
of him--the sudden fear, the solitary death, then these stairs thronged
with his pensioners, the mighty Burke pushing through, Reynolds with his
ear-trumpet, and big 'blinking Sam,' and last of all the unknown grave,
God knows where, by the chapel wall. Poor little Oliver! They say it
was a women that was 'in' at the end. No more of the like now, no more
debts, no more vain 'talk like poor Poll:' the light's out--all still
and dark."

... "How's my little Nannie? Does she still keep a menagerie for sick
dogs 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 at
Westminster Hall yesterday. It was the great trial of Mitchell, M. P.,
who forged his father's will. Stevens defended--bad, bad, bad, smirking
all the while with small facetiæ. But Denman's summing up--oh! oh! such
insight, such acuteness! It was wonderful. I had a seat in the gallery.
The grand old hall was a thrilling scene--the dense throng, the upturned
faces, the counsel, the judges, the officers of court, and then the
windows, the statues, the echo of history that made every stone and
rafter live--Oh, Nan, Nan, listen to me! If I live I'll sit on the bench
there 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 his
father'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 would
cry--it would make his heart bleed to see her; but must he for a few
tears 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 he
remembered the time, so lately past, when the prayer of his secret heart
would have been different. It was so easy now to hate himself for such
evil impulses.

Philip decided to go to the Melliah. It would give him the chance he
wanted of breaking off the friendship finally. More than friendship
there had never been, except secretly, and that could not count. He knew
he was deceiving himself; he felt an uneasy sense of loss of honour and
a 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's
that he might inquire at Kirk Michael about the Deemster.. He found the
great man's house a desolate place. The gate was padlocked, and he had
to 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 untidy
head out of a little window at the side.

"It's scandalous the doings that's here, sir," she whispered. "The
Dempster'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 driving
everybody away."

"Can I speak to him?" said Philip.

"Billiam? It isn't fit. He'll blackguard you mortal, and the Dempster
himself is past it. Just sitting with the brandy and drinking and
drinking, and ateing nothing; but that dirt brought up on the Curragh
shouting for beefstakes morning and night, and having his dinner laid on
a beautiful new white sheet as clane as a bed."

From the ambush of a screen before an open door, Philip looked into the
room where the Deemster was killing himself. The window shutters were up
to keep out the daylight; candles were burning in the necks of bottles
on the mantelpiece; a fire smouldered in a grate littered with paper
and ashes; a coarse-featured man was eating ravenously at the table,
a chop-bone in his fingers, and veins like cords moving on his low
forehead--and the Deemster himself, judge of his island since the death
of Iron Christian, was propped up in a chair, with a smoking glass on a
stool 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 the
fellow; and a husky, eaten-out voice replied to him with a grunt and a
laugh, "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--nor
I neither, would I, Jacko?" The tail of the monkey flapped on the
Deemster's breast, and Philip crept away with a shiver.

The sun was shining brightly outside the house, and the air was fresh
and sweet. Remounting his horse, which was neighing and stamping at the
gate, 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 the
mill.

"I'm busy as Trap's wife," she said, "and if you were the Govenar itself
you wouldn't get lave to spake to me now. Put a sight on himself on the
field yonder, the second meadow past the Bishop's bridge, and come back
with the boys to supper."

Philip found the Melliah field. Two-score workers, men, women, and
children, a cart and a pair of horses were scattered over it. Where the
corn had been cut the day before the stubble had been woven overnight
into a white carpet of cobwebs, which neither sun nor step of man had
yet dispelled. There were the smell of the straw, the cawing of the
rooks in the glen, the hissing to the breeze of the barley still
standing, the swish of the scythe and the gling of the sickle, the
bending and rising of the shearers, the swaying of the binders dragging
the sheaves, the gluck of the wheels of the cart, the merry head of a
child 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 farthest
hedge, and waving the corn band with which she was tieing to some one
below.

Philip vaulted into the field, and was instantly seized by every woman
working in it, except Kate, tied up with the straw ropes, and only
liberated on paying the toll of an intruder.

"But I've come to work," he protested, and Cæsar who, was plotting the
last 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. Then
cocking his eye up the field, "the Ballabeg for leader," he cried, "he's
a 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 the
cart Now ding-dong, boys, bend your backs and down with it."

Kate had not looked up when Philip came into the field, but she had
seen him come, and she gave a little start when he took his place in his
shirt-sleeves beside her. He used some conventional phrases which she
scarcely answered, and then nothing was heard but the sounds of the
sickle and the corn. She worked steadily for some time, and he looked
up at her at intervals with her round bare arms and supple waist and
firm-set foot and tight red stocking. Two butterflies tumbling in the
air 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 a
basket 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 women
with babes went cooing and clucking to the hedge where the little ones
lay nuzzled up and unattended, some asleep in shawls, some awake on
their backs and grabbing at the wondrous forests of marguerites towering
up 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 company
of starlings passed overhead, glittering in the sunlight like the scales
of a herring.

"They're taiching us a lesson," said Cæsar. "They're going together over
the sea; but there's someones on earth would sooner go to heaven itself
solitary, and take joy if they found themselves all alone and the cock
of the walk there."

Kate and Philip stood and talked where they had been shearing quietly,
simply, without apparent interest, and meanwhile the workers discussed
them.

First the men: "He works his siggle like a man though."--"A stout boy
anyway; give him practice and he'd shear many a man in bed." Then the
women: "She's looking as bright as a pewter pot, and she's all so pretty
as the Govenar's daughter too."--"Got a good heart, though. Only last
week she had word of Pete, and look at the scarlet perricut." Finally
both men and women: "Lave her alone, mother; it's that Ross
that's wasting the woman."--"Well, if I was a man I'd know my
tack."--"Wouldn't trust. It comes with Cæsar anyway; the Lord prospers
him; 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 your
pen'orth of taffy and twelve pence out."--"Lend's a hand with the jough
then, boy. None left? Aw, Cæsar's wonderful religious, but there's never
much 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," said
Cæsar. "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 his
head as he hacked and blew and sent off his breath in spits until the
green grass springing up behind him left only a triangular corner of
yellow corn. Fore-rig and the after-rig took a tussle together, and
presently nothing was standing of all the harvest of Glenmooar but one
small shaft of ears a yard wide or less. Then the leaders stopped, and
all the shearers of the field came up and cast down their sickles into
the 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 in
the lengthening shadows from the west.

"Strike them from their legs, Kirry," cried Nancy Joe, and Kate drew up
one of the sickles, swept her left arm over the standing corn, and at a
single stroke of her right brought the last ears to the ground.

Then there was a great shout. "Hurrah for the Mel-liah!" It rang through
the 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, "but
what shall be done at the great gathering for unripe Christians?"

Kate lifted her last sheaf and tied it about with a piece of blue
ribbon, and Philip plucked the cushag (the ragwort) from the hedge, and
gave it her to put in the band.

This being done; the Queen of the Melliah stepped back, feeling Philip's
eyes 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 her
accustomed dole.

She was a timid, shrinking creature, having a face walled with wrinkles,
and wearing a short blue petticoat, showing heavy dull boots like a
man'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 and
tightening it to trip them up, and slacking and twirling it to make them
skip. And the girls were falling with a laugh, and leaping up again
and flying off like the dust, tearing their frocks and dropping their
sun-bonnets as if the barley grains they had been reaping had got into
their blood.

In the midst of this maddening frolic, while Cæsar and the others were
kneeling behind the barley stack, Kate snatched Philip's hat from his
head 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 boulders
worn smooth and ploughed hollow by the wash of ages; wet moss and lichen
on the channel walls; deep, cool dubbs; tiny reefs; little cascades of
boiling foam; lines of trees like sentinels on either side, making the
light dim through the overshadowing leafage; gaunt trunks torn up by
winds and thrown across the stream with their heads to the feet of their
fellows; the golden fuschia here, the green trammon there; now and again
a poor old tholthan, a roofless house, with grass growing on its kitchen
floor; and over all the sun peering down with a hundred eyes into the
dark and slumberous gloom, and the breeze singing somewhere up in the
tree-tops to the voice of the river below.

Kate had run out on the stem of one of the fallen trees, and there
Philip found her, over the middle of the stream, laughing, dancing,
waving his hat in one hand, and making sweeping bows to her reflection
in the water below.

"Come back," he cried. "You terrible girl, you'll fall. Sit down
there--don't torment me, sit down."

After a curtsey to him she turned her attention to her skirts, wound
them about her ankles, sat on the trunk, and dangled her shapely feet
half an inch over the surface of the stream.

Then Philip had time to observe that the other end of the tree did
not reach the opposite bank, but dipped short into the water. So he
barricaded his end by sitting on it, and said triumphantly: "My hat, if
you please."

Kate looked and gave a little cry of alarm and then a chuckle, and then
she said--

"You thought you'd caught me, didn't you? You can't, though," and she
dropped 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 his
side, 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 the
stream, and turned away a step bareheaded.

A moment later his confidence was dashed. When he turned his head back
Kate had whipped off her shoes and stockings, and was ramming the one
inside the other.

"What are you doing?" cried Philip.

"Catch this--and this," she said, flinging the shoes across to him. Then
clapping his straw hat on the crown of her sun-bonnet, she tucked up her
skirts with both hands and waded ashore.

"What a clever boy you are! You thought you'd caught me again, didn't
you?" she said.

"I've caught your shoes, anyway," said Philip, "and until you give me my
hat 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 there
came the sound of a hymn from the field they had left, and then it was
agreed by way of mutual penalty that Kate should put on Philip's hat on
condition that Philip should be required to put on Kate's shoes.

At the next moment Philip, suddenly sobered, was reproaching himself
fiercely. What was he doing? He had come to tell Kate that he should
come no more, and this was how he had begun! Yesterday he was in
Douglas reading his father's letters, and here he was to-day, forgetting
himself, his aims in life, his duties, his obligations--everything.
"Philip," he thought, "you are as weak as water. Give up your plans; you
are 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) was
still coming from the Melliah field, and she added, slyly, shyly, with
a mixture of boldness and nervousness, "Do you think this world is so
very bad, then?"

"Well--aw--no," he faltered, and looking up he met her eye, and they
both laughed.

"It's all nonsense, isn't it?" she said, and they began to walk down the
glen.

"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 swishing
against 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 a
lagging step, trying to begin. "Better prepare her," he thought. But he
could think of no commonplace leading up to what he wished to say.

Presently, through a tangle of wild fuchsia, there was a smell of
burning turf in the air and the sound of milking into a pail, and then a
voice 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 stepped
on to the roof of her house without knowing it, for the little place was
low and opened from the water's edge and leaned against the bank.

Philip made some conventional inquiries, and she answered that she had
been thirty years there, and had one son living with her, and he was an
imbecile.

"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, and
he isn't wise, poor boy."

Philip tried to steel his heart. "It is cruel," he thought, "it will
hurt her; but what must be, must be." She began to sing and went
carolling down the glen, keeping two paces in front of him. He followed
like an assassin meditating the moment to strike. "He is going to say
something," she thought, and then she sang louder.

"Kate," he called huskily.

But she only clapped her hands, and cried in a voice of delight, "The
echo! Here's the echo! Let's shout to it."

Her kindling features banished his purpose for the time, and he
delivered himself to her play. Then she called up the gill, "Ec--ho!
Ec--ho!" and listened, but there was no response, and she said, "It
won'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, Philip
won't hear me either." She laughed. "He's always so stupid though, and
perhaps 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," said
Kate.

They walked a few steps, and Kate called again, "Philip!" There was no
answer. "Philip is stubborn; he won't have anything to do with me," said
Kate.

Then Philip called a second time, "Katey!" And back came the echo as
before. "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 darkness
without! It will sound so ordinary then, 'Good-bye! Haven't you heard
the news? Auntie Nan is reconciled at last to leaving Ballure and
joining me in Douglas.' That's it; so simple, so commonplace."

The light was now coming between the trees on the closing west in long
swords of sunset red. They could hear the jolting of the laden cart on
its way down the glen. The birds were fairly rioting overhead, and all
sorts of joyous sounds filled the air. Underfoot there were long ferns
and gorse, which caught at her crinkling dress sometimes, and then he
liberated her and they laughed. A trailing bough of deadly nightshade
was hanging from the broken head of an old ash stump, whose wasted feet
were overgrown by two scarlet-tipped toadstools, and she plucked a long
tendril 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. Then
she 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 like
lightning passed from her eye to his.

Then he tried to moralise. "Ah!" he said, out of the gravity of his
wisdom, "if one could only go on for ever like this, living from minute
to minute! But that's the difference between a man and a woman. A woman
lives in the world of her own heart. If she has interests, they centre
there. But a man has his interests outside his affections. He is
compelled 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 a
ridiculous fellow; sometimes cropping with saucy jerks, then kicking up
his heels, as if an invisible imp had pinched him, then wagging his rump
and laughing in his nostrils.

"As I was saying," said Philip, "a man has to put by the pleasures of
life. Now here's myself, for example. I am bound, do you know, by a kind
of 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 his
heart was speaking louder and quicker than his halting tongue. She saw
that 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 the
water's edge.

It was a little round pool, black as ink, lying quiet and apparently
motionless under a noisy place where the waters swirled and churned over
black moss, and the stream ran into the dark. Philip had no choice but
to follow her.

"Cut me a willow! Your penknife! Quick, sir, quick! Not that old
branch--a sapling. There, that's it. Now you shall hear me tell my own
fortune."

"An ordeal is it?" said Philip.

"Hush! Be quiet, still, or little Phonodoree wont listen. Hush, now
hush!"

With solemn airs, but a certain sparkle in her eyes, she went down on
her knees by the pool, stretched her round arm over the water, passed
the 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 sat
back on her heels to watch it as it moved slowly with the motion of the
water.

"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 that
either. No, it has--yes, it has------oh!"

"Sunk!" said Philip, laughing and clapping his hands. "You're doomed to
be an old maid, Kate. Phonodoree says so."

"Cruel Brownie! I'm vexed that I bothered with him," said Kate, dropping
her lip. Then nodding to her reflection in the water where the willow
bough had disappeared, she said, "Poor little Katey! He might have given
you 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!" she
said.

"There are tears in your eyes, though," said Philip.

"No wonder, either. You're so ridiculous. And if I'm meant for an old
maid, 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 all
head 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, and
then 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 when
you're a man----"

"Lookout!"

She made him an arch curtsey and leapt round a tree, and cried from the
other 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's
the 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 a
girl wants with a----Oh! Oh! Oo!"

Her tirade ended suddenly. She had plunged into a bed of the prickly
gorse, and was feeling in twenty places at once what it was to wear low
shoes 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, you
torment, to carry her through the gorse like this."

"Ah!" she said, turning her face over his shoulder, and tickling his
neck with her breath.

Her hair caught in a tree, and fell in a dark shower over his breast. He
set her on her feet; they took hands, and went carolling down the glen
together:

"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 fluttering
of wings overhead, and sometimes the last piping of birds. The wind
wandered away, and left their voices sovereign of all the air.

Then there came a distant shout; the cheer of the farm people on
reaching home with the Melliah.. It awakened Philip as from a fit of
intoxication.

"This is madness," he thought. "What am I doing?" "He is going to speak
now," she told herself.

Her gaiety shaded off into melancholy, and her melancholy burst into
wild gaiety again. The night had come down, the moon had risen, the
stars had appeared. She crept closer to Philip's side, and began to
tell him the story of a witch. They were near to the house the witch had
lived in. There it was--that roofless cottage--that tholthan under the
deep trees like a dungeon.

"Have you never heard of her, Philip? No? The one they called the
Deemster'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 went
mad and cursed him, and said she was his wife though they hadn't been to
church, and he should never marry anybody else. Then her father turned
her out, and she came up here all alone, and there was a baby, and they
were saying she killed it, and everybody was afraid of her. And all the
time her boy was making himself a great, great man until he got to be
Deemster. But he never married, never, though times and times people
were putting this lady on him and then that; but when they told the
witch, she only laughed and said, 'Let him, he'll get lave enough!' At
last she was old and going on two sticks, and like to die any day, and
then he crept out of his big house unknown to any one and stole up
here to the woman's cottage. And when she saw the old man she said, 'So
you've come at last, boy; but you've been keeping me long, bogh, you've
been 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 she
had 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 girl
is the wife of somebody, she _must_ cling to him, and if she is ever
false she must return. Something compels her. That's if she's really his
wife--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 cling
the closer?"

"He couldn't help himself, Philip."

Philip tried to say it was only a girl's morality, but her confidence
shamed him. She slipped her moist fingers into his hand again. They were
close by the deserted tholthan, and she was creeping nearer and nearer
to 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 little
scream. She was breathing irregularly. He could smell the perfume of her
fallen hair. He was in agony of pain and delight. His heart was leaping
in his bosom; his eyes were burning.

"She's right," he thought. "Love is best. It is everything. It is the
crown of life. Shall I give it up for the Dead Sea fruit of worldly
success? Think of the Deemster! Wifeless, childless, living solitary,
dying alone, unregretled, unmourned. What is the wickedness you are
plotting? Your father is dead, you can do him neither good nor harm.
This girl is alive. She loves you. Love her. Let the canting hypocrites
prate as they will."

She had disengaged her hand, and was creeping away from him in the half
darkness, treading softly and going off like a gleam.

"Kate!" he called.

He heard her laughter, he heard the drowsy hum of the gill, he could
smell the warm odour of the gorse bushes.

"But this is madness," he thought. "This is the fever of an hour. Yield
now 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 as
water."

"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 had
plucked it in the overgrown garden.

"Listen! I'm leaving Ramsey for good--don't intend to practise in the
northern 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, you
know--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 and
girl 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 hold
of his arm and dragged at it.

"Won't you spare me? Will you shame me to death? Must I tell you? If you
won't speak, I will. You cannot leave me, Philip, because--because--what
do 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 am
yours!"

Her upturned face seemed to flash. He staggered like one seized with
giddiness. 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; and
your hair, that I may feel it with my hands; and your lips--can I help
it?--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 was
fighting 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 she
sprang upon him, and all grew confused, the berries of the nightshade
whipped 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 you
won't go now!"

"God forgive us both!"

"Kiss me again, Philip! Don't despise me that I love you better than
myself!"

She was weeping, she was laughing, her heart was throbbing up to her
throat. 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 victim
of momentary intoxication, of stress of passion, of the fever of
instinct? No. It is mainly that she is a slave of the sweetest,
tenderest, most spiritual and pathetic of all human fallacies--the
fallacy that by giving herself to the man she loves she attaches him
to herself for ever. This is the real betrayer of nearly all good women
that are betrayed. It lies at the root of tens of thousands of the cases
that 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 the
man is to draw apart. He must conquer it or she is lost. Such is the
old cruel difference and inequality of man and woman as nature made
them--the old trick, the old tragedy.




XXIV.

Old Mannanin, the magician, according to his wont, had surrounded
his island with mist that day, and, in the helpless void of things
unrevealed, a steamship bound for Liverpool came with engines slacked
some points north of her course, blowing her fog-horn over the
breathless sea with that unearthly yell which must surely be the sound
whereby the devil summons his legions out of chaos.

Presently something dropping through the dense air settled for a moment
on the damp rope of the companion ladder, and one of the passengers
recognised 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 a
great round shoulder rose through the white gauze, as if it had been the
ghost of a mountain.

"That's the Isle of Man," the passenger shouted, and there was a cry
of incredulity. "It's the Calf, I'm telling you, boys. Lave it to me to
know." And instantly the engines were reversed.

The passenger, a stalwart fellow, with a look as of pallor under a tawny
tan, walked the deck in a fever of excitement, sometimes shouting in a
cracked voice, sometimes laughing huskily, and at last breaking down in
a 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 he
lifted it up in his arms and hugged it, and called it by blusterous
swear names, with noises of inarticulate affection. Then he went down
to his berth in the second cabin and opened a little box of letters, and
took them out one by one, and leaned up to the port to read them. He
had read them before, and he knew them by heart, but he traced the lines
with his broad forefinger, and spelled the words one by one. And as he
did so he laughed aloud, and then cried to himself, and then laughed
once more. "She is well and happy, and looking lovely, and, if she does
not 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. There
was a breeze now, and he filled his lungs and blew and blew. The island
was dying down over the sea in a pale light of silver grey. An engineman
and 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, the
heart has its hunger same as anything else, and mine has been on short
commons these five years and better. See that island there, lying like
a 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 only
three 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 Manxman
myself, mate, and I've got a lil Manx woman that's waiting for me
yonder. It's only an ould shirt I'm bringing her to patch, as the saying
is, but she'll be that joyful you never seen. It's bad to take a woman
by surprise, though--these nervous creatures--'sterics, you see--I'll
send her a tally graph from the Stage. My sakes! the joy she'll be
taking of that boy, too! He'll be getting sixpence for himself and
a drink of butter-milk. It's always the way of these poor lil
things--can't stand no good news at all--people coming home and the
like--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 five
years... 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 a
bullet-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 men
together.




PART III. MAN AND WOMAN




I.

Philip was vanquished, and he knew it, but he was not daunted, he was
not distressed. To have resisted the self-abandonment of Kate's love
would have been monstrous. Therefore, he had done no wrong, and there
was nothing to be ashamed of. But when he reached Ballure he did not
dash into Auntie Nan's room, according to his wont, though a light
was burning there, and he could hear the plop and click of thread and
needle; he crept upstairs to his own, and sat down to write a letter. It
was 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 seeing
we must be so much apart, let us contrive a means of being together,
nevertheless. Listen!--I whisper the secret in your ear. To-morrow night
and every night eat your supper at eight o'clock exactly; I will do
the same, and so we shall be supping in each other's company, my little
wife, 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 a
friend,' I'll say, and then I'll sit down in my rooms alone, but you
will be with me."

Tingling with delight, he wrote this letter to Kate, though less than
an hour parted from her, and went out to post it. He was going upstairs
again, steadily, on tiptoe, his head half aside and his face over his
shoulder, when Auntie Nan's voice came from the blue room--"Philip!"

He returned with a sheepish look, and a sense, never felt before, of
being naked, so to speak. But Auntie Nan did not look at him. She was
working a lamb on a sampler, and she reached over the frame to take
something out of a drawer and hand it to him. It was a medallion of a
young child--a boy, with long fair curls like a girl's, and a face like
sunshine.

"Was it father, Auntie?"

"Yes; a French painter who came ashore with Thurlot painted it for
grandfather."

Philip laid it on the table. He was more than ever sure that Auntie Nan
had heard something. Such were her tender ways of warning him. He could
not be vexed.

"I'm sleepy to-night, Auntie, and you look tired too. You've been
waiting up for me again. Now, you really must not. Besides, it limits
one's freedom."

"That's nothing, Philip. You said you would come home after calling on
the poor Deemster, and so----"

"He's in a bad way, Auntie. Drink--delirium--such a wreck. Well, good
night!"

"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 and
enthusiasm? But poor father! How soon the brightness melted away! He
never repined, though. Oh, no, never. Indeed, he used to laugh and joke
at 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 dying
man he would joke like that. But sometimes he would grow serious, and
then he would say, 'Give little Philip some for all. He'll deserve it
more 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 got
them; you are here, but he is on the heights; lie still, thou poor
aspiring 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 was
the real mischief in his life, if you think of it."

Auntie Nan looked up with her needle at poise above the sampler, and
said 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 is
peace 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. Men
talk of it as a holy thing--it is unholy. Books are written in praise of
it--I would have such books burnt. When anybody falls to it, he is like
a 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 seen
them tempted----"

Philip was certain of it now. Some one had been prying upon him at
Sulby. He was angry, and his anger spent itself on Auntie Nan in a
torrent of words. "You are wrong, Aunt Anne, quite wrong. Love is the
one lovely thing in life. It is beauty, it is poetry. Call it passion if
you will--what would the world be like without it? A place where every
human heart would be an island standing alone; a place without children,
without joy, without merriment, without laughter. No, no; Heaven has
given us love, and we are wrong when we try to put it away. We cannot
put it away, and when we make the attempt we are punished for our pride
and arrogance. It ought to be enough for us to let heaven decide whether
we are to be great men or little men, and to decide for ourselves
whether we are to be good men and happy men. And the greatest happiness
of life is love. Heaven would have to work a miracle to enable us to
live without it. But Heaven does not work such a miracle, because the
greatest miracle of heaven is love itself."

The needle hand of Auntie Nan was trembling above her sampler, and her
lips were twitching.

"You are a young man yet, Philip," she faltered, "but I am an old lady
now, dear, and I have seen the fruits of the intoxication you call
passion. Oh, have I not, have I not? It wrecks lives, ruins prospects,
breaks up homes, sets father against son, and brother against
brother----"

Philip would give her no chance. He was tramping across the room, and
he burst out with, "You are wrong again, Auntie. You are always wrong
in these matters, because you are always thinking from the particular
to the general--you are always thinking of my father. What you have been
calling my father's fall was really his fate. He deserved it. If he had
been fit for the high destiny he aspired to--if he had been fit to be a
judge, he would not have fallen. That he did fall is proof enough that
he was not fit. God did not intend it. My father's aspirations were not
the call of a stern vocation, they were mere poetic ambition. If he had
ever by great ill-fortune lived to be made Deemster, he would have found
himself out, and the island would have found him out, and you yourself
would 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 have
been 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 from
his forehead, he swung out of the room.

Being alone, he began to collect himself. Was it, in sober fact, he who
had spoken like that? Of his father too? To Auntie Nan as well? He saw
how it was; he had been speaking of his father, but he had been thinking
of himself; he had been struggling to justify himself, to reconcile,
strengthen, and fortify himself. But in doing so he had been breaking an
idol, a life-long idol, his own idol and Auntie Nan's.

He stumbled downstairs in a rush of remorse, and burst again into the
room crying in a broken voice, "Auntie! Auntie!"

But the room was empty; the lamp was turned down; the sampler was pushed
aside. Something crunched under his foot, and he stooped and picked
it up. It was the medallion, and it was cracked across. The accident
terrified him. His skin seemed to creep. He felt as if he had trodden on
his father's face. Putting the broken picture into his pocket, he turned
about like a guilty man and crept silently to bed in the darkness.

But the morning brought him solace for the pains of the night--it
brought him a letter from Kate.

"The Melliah is over at long, long last, and I am allowed to be alone
with 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 do
the same.' But there is really nothing to tell you, for nothing happened
of the slightest consequence. Good night! I am going to bed after I have
posted this letter at the bridge. Two hours hence you will appear to me
in 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 think
best to be done. Your difficulties alarm me terribly. You see, dear, we
two are about to do something so much out of the common. Good night! I
lift my head that you may give me another kiss on the eyes, and here are
two 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 came
upon a messenger from Government House in stately intercourse with his
servant. His Excellency begged him to step up to Onchan immediately, and
to remain for lunch.

The Governor's carriage was at the door, and Philip got into it. He
was not excited; he remembered his agitation at the Governor's former
message and smiled. On leaving his own rooms he had not forgotten to
order supper for eight o'clock precisely.

He found the Governor polite and expansive as usual. He was sitting in
a room hung round with ponderous portraits of former Governors, most of
them 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 the
Governor. "Applications are made, you know, to the Home Office, but
it is probable that my advice may be asked by the Secretary in his
selection. I may, perhaps, be of use to a candidate."

Philip gave no sign, and the Governor shifted his leg and continued with
a smile, "Certainly that appears to be the impression of your brother
advocates, Mr. Christian; they are about me already, like wasps at a
glue-pot. I will not question but you'll soon be one of them."

Philip made a gesture of protestation, and the Governor waved his hand
and smiled again. "Oh, I shan't blame you; young men are ambitious. It
is natural that they should wish to advance themselves in life. In your
case, too, if I may say so, there is the further spur of a desire to
recover the position your family once held, and lately lost through the
mistake 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 me
see, is it eight-and twenty?"

"Twenty-six," said Philip.

"No more? Only six-and-twenty? And then, successful as your career has
been thus far--perhaps I should say distinguished or even brilliant--you
are 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 I
do, don't smile too broadly, young man. You ought to know by this time
that the personal equation counts for something in this old-fashioned
island of yours. Now, the late Deemster was an example which it would
be perilous to repeat. If it were repeated, I know who would hear of
the blunder every day of his life, and it wouldn't be the Home Secretary
either. Deemster Mylrea was called upon to punish the crimes of drink,
and he was himself a drunkard; to try the offences of sensuality, and he
was 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 his
excesses; but you will not be a safe candidate to recommend until
you have placed yourself to all appearances out of the reach of them.
'Beware of these Christians,' said the great Derby to his son; and
pardon me if I revive the warning to a Christian himself."

The colour came strong into Philip's face. Even at that moment he felt
angry 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 tell
you that; but I feel an interest in you, and I've done you some services
already, though naturally a young man will think he has done everything
for 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 on
Philip's shoulder familiarly, "only a word more, Mr. Christian. Send
in your application immediately, and--take the advice of an old
fiddler--marry as soon afterwards as may be. But with your prospects
it would be a sin not to walk carefully. If she's English, so much the
better; but if she's Manx--take care."

Philip lunched with the Governor's wife, who told him she remembered his
grandfather; also with his unmarried daughter, who said she had heard
him speak for the fishermen at Peel. An official "At home," the last of
the summer, was to be held in the garden that afternoon, and Philip was
invited to remain. He did so, and thereby witnessed the assaults of the
wasps at the glue-pot. They buzzed about the Governor, they buzzed about
his wife, they buzzed about his dog and about a tame deer, which took
grapes 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 more
splay-footed than before. Philip stepped up to his uncle and offered
his arm to alight by. But the Ballawhaine brushed it aside and pushed
through to the Governor, to whom he talked incessantly for some minutes
of his son Ross, saying he had sent for him and would like to present
him to his Excellency.

If Philip lacked enjoyment of the scene, if his face lacked heart and
happiness, it was not the fault of his host. "Will you not take Lady
So-and-so to have tea?" the Governor would say; and presently Philip
found himself in a circle of official wifedom, whose husbands had been
made Knights by the Queen, and themselves made Ladies by--God knows
whom. 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 look
after him. Don't you think so, Mr. Christian?"

"Why," said a white-haired dame, "have you never heard of his great
romance?"

"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 mock
gravity, "The lady was the blacksmith's daughter, dearest." And then
there was a merry trill of laughter.

Philip felt sick, bowed to his hosts, and left. As he was going off, his
uncle intercepted him, holding out both hands.

"How's this, Philip? You never come to Ballawhaine now. I see! Oh, I
see! Too busy with the women to remember an old man. They're all talking
of you. Putting the comather on them, eh? I know, I know; don't tell
me."




III.

Philip's way home lay through the town, but he made a circuit of the
country, across Onchan, so heartsick was he, so utterly choked with
bitter feelings. He felt as if all the angels and devils together must
be making a mock at him. The thing he had worked for through five heavy
years, the end he had aimed at, the goal he had fought for, was his
already--his for the stretching out of his hand. Yet now that it was
his, he could not have it. Oh, the mockery of his fate! Oh, the irony of
his life! It was shrieking, it was frantic!

Then his bolder spirit seemed to say, "What is all this childish fuming
about? Fortune comes to you with both hands full. Be bold, and you may
have both the wish of your soul and the desire of your heart--both the
Deemster-ship and Kate."

It was impossible to believe that. If he married Kate, the Governor
would not recommend him as Deemster. Had he not admitted that he
stood in some fear of the public opinion of the island? And was it not
conceivable that, besides the unselfish interest which the Governor
had shown in him, there was even a personal one that would operate more
powerfully than fear of the old-fashioned Manx conventions to prevent
any recommendation of the husband of the wrong woman? At one moment a
vague memory rose before Philip, as he crossed the fields, of the lunch
at Government House, of the Governor's wife and daughter, of their
courtesy and boundless graciousness. At the next moment he had drawn up
sharply, with pangs of self-contempt, hating himself, loathing himself,
swearing at himself for a mean-souled ingrate, as he kicked up the grass
and the turf beneath it But the idea had taken root. He could not help
it; the Governor's interest went for nothing in his reckoning.

"What a fool you are, Philip," something seemed to whisper out of the
darkest corner of his conscience; "take the Deemstership first, and
marry 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 be
surmounted. The Deemster who slapped the conventions in the face would
suffer for it. He would be taboo to half the life of the island--in
public an official, in private a recluse. An icy picture rose before his
mind's eye of the woman who would be his wife in her relations with
the ladies he had just left. She might be their superior in education,
certainly in all true manners, and in natural grace and beauty, in
sweetness and charm, their mistress beyond a dream of comparison.
But they would never forget that she was the daughter of a country
innkeeper, and every little cobble in the rickety pyramid, even from the
daughter of the innkeeper in the town, would look down on her as from a
throne.

He could see them leaving their cards at his door and driving hurriedly
off. They must do that much. It was the bitter pill which the Deemster's
doings made them swallow. Then he could see his wife sitting alone, a
miserable woman, despised envied, isolated, shut off from her own class
by her marriage with the Deemster, and from his class by the Deemster's
marriage with her. Again, he could see himself too powerful to offend,
too dangerous to ignore, going out on his duties without cheer, and
returning to his wife without company. Finally, he remembered his father
and his mother, and he could not help but picture himself sitting at
home with Kate five years after their marriage, when the first happiness
of each other's society had faded, had staled, had turned to the
wretchedness of starvation in its state of siege. Or perhaps going out
for walks with her, just themselves, always themselves only, they two
together, this evening, last evening, and to-morrow evening; through
the streets crowded by visitors, down the harbour where the fishermen
congregate, across the bridge and over the head between sea and sky;
people bowing to them respectfully, rigidly, freezingly; people nudging
and whispering and looking their way. Oh, God, what end could come of
such an abject life but that, beginning by being unhappy, they should
descend to being bad as well?

"What a fuss you are making of things," said the voice again, but more
loudly. "This hubbub only means that you can't have your cake and eat
it. Very well, take Kate, and let the Deemstership go to perdition."

There was not much comfort in that counsel, for it made no reckoning
with the certainty that, if marriage with Kate would prevent him from
being Deemster, it would prevent him from being anything in the Isle
of Man. As it had happened with his father, so it would happen with
him--there would be no standing ground in the island for the man who had
deliberately put himself outside the pale.

"Don't worry me with silly efforts to draw a line so straight. If you
can't have Kate and the Deemstership together, and if you can't have
Kate without the Deemstership, there is only one thing left--the
Deemstership 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 had
gone by that time, and he was walking in the dark. But the voice which
had been pleading on his side now protested on hers.

"Don't prate of duty and necessity. You mean self-love and
self-interest. Man, be honest. Because this woman is an obstacle in your
career, you would sacrifice her. It is boundless, pitiless selfishness.
Suppose you abandon her, dare you think of her without shame! She loves
you, 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 you
and heir--that you will be silent, that she will have no temptation to
speak. She loves you. She has given you all. God bless her!"

Affectionate pity swept down the selfish man in him. As the lights of
the town appeared on his path, he was saying to himself boldly, "Since
either way there is trouble, I'll do as I said last night--I'll leave
Heaven to decide whether I'm to be a great man or a little man, and
decide for myself whether I'm to be a true man or a happy man. I'll take
my heart in my hand and go right forward."

In this temper he returned to his chambers. The rooms fronted to Athol
Street, but backed on to the churchyard of St. George's. They were
quiet, and not overlooked. His lamp was lit. The servant was laying the
cloth.

"Lay covers for two, Jemmy," said Philip. Then he began to hum
something.

Presently, in feeling for his keys, his fingers touched an unfamiliar
substance in his pocket. He remembered what it was. It was the cracked
medallion of his father. He could not bear to look at it. Unlocking a
chest, he buried it at the bottom under a pile of winter clothing.

This recalled a possession yet more painful, and going to a desk, he
drew out the packet of his father's letters and proceeded to hide them
away with the medallion. As he did so his hand trembled, his limbs
shook, he felt giddy, and he thought the voice that had tormented him
with conflicting taunts was ringing in his ears again. "Bury him deep!
Bury your father out of all sight and all remembrance. Bury his love
of you, his hopes of you, his expectations and dreams of you. Bury and
forget 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 a
solemn, dignified, and reticent person, who had been groom to the late
Bishop. His gravity he had acquired from his horses, his dignity from
his master; but his reticence he had created for himself, being a thing
beyond nature in creature or man. His proper name was Cottier; he had
always 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 which
he had picked out of his water-bowl at lunch, and, first putting it to
his lips, he tossed it on to the empty place before the chair which had
been drawn up opposite. Then he sat down to eat.

He ate little; and, do what he would, he could not keep his mind
from wandering. He thought of his aunt, and how hurt she had been the
previous night; of his uncle, and how he had snubbed and then slavered
over him; of the Governor, and how strange the interest he had shown in
him; and finally, he thought of Pete, and how lately he was dead, and
how soon forgotten.

In the midst of these memories, all sad and some bitter, suddenly he
remembered again that he was supping with Kate. Then he struggled to
be bright and even a little gay. He knew that she would be taking her
supper at Sulby at that moment, thinking of him and making believe that
he was with her. So he tried to think that she was with him, sitting in
the chair opposite, looking across the table between the white cloth
and the blue lamp-shade, out of her beaming eyes, with her rings of dark
hair dancing on her forehead, and her ripe mouth twitching merrily. Then
the air of the room seemed to be filled with a sweet presence. He
could have fancied there was a perfume of lace and dainty things.
"Sweetheart!" He laughed--he hardly knew if it was himself that had
spoken. It was dear, delicious fooling.

But his eyes fell on the chest wherein he had buried the letters and the
medallion, and his mind wandered again. He thought of his father, of his
grandfather, of his lost inheritance, and how nearly he had reclaimed
the better part of it, and then once more of Pete, crying aloud at last
in the coil of his trouble, "Oh, if Pete had only lived!"

His voice startled and his words horrified him. To wipe out both in
the first moment of recovered consciousness, he filled his glass to
the brim, and lifted it up, rising at the same time, looking across
the table, and saying in a soft whisper, "Your health, darling, your
health!"

The bell rang from the street door, and he stood listening with the
wine-glass in his hand. When he knew anything more, a voice at his
elbow 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 a
night-long perambulation of the dark streets. He slept a heavy sleep
of four deep hours, with oppressive dreams of common things swelling to
enormous 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 the
door, after he had pushed it open with his knee. The window was half
up, and a cold sea-breeze was blowing into the room; yet the grate and
hearth showed that a fire had been kindled in the night, and his master
was still sleeping.

Jem set down his tray, lifted a decanter that stood on the table, held
it 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. He
was 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, he
added, "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 an
effort to remember. Just then the newsboys went shouting down the street
beyond the churchyard: "Special edition--Death of the Deemster."

Then everything came back. He had written to Kate, asking her to meet
him at Port Mooar at two o'clock that day. It was then, and in that
lonesome place, that he had decided to break the news to her. He must
tell all; he had determined upon his course.

Without appetite he ate his breakfast. As he did so he heard voices
from a stable-yard in the street. He lifted his head and looked out
mechanically. A four-wheeled dogcart was coming down the archway behind
a mettlesome young horse with silver-mounted harness. The man driving
it was a gorgeous person in a light Melton overcoat. One of his spatted
feet was on the break, and he had a big cigar between his teeth. It was
Ross Christian.

The last time Philip had seen the man he had fought him for the honour
of 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 awoke
in the morning she felt a great happiness. Opening her eyes and half
raising herself in bed, she looked around. There were the pink curtains
hanging like a tent above her, there were the scraas of the thatched
roof, with the cracking whitewash snipping down on the counterpane,
there were the press and the wash-hand table, the sheep-skin on the
floor, and the sun coming through the orchard window. But everything was
transfigured, everything beautiful, everything mysterious. She was like
one who had gone to sleep on the sea, with only the unattainable horizon
round about, and awakened in harbour in a strange land that was warm and
lovely and full of sunshine. She closed her eyes again, so that nothing
might disturb the contemplation of the mystery. She folded her round
arms as a pillow behind her head, her limbs dropped back of their own
weight, 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 Nancy
churning in the dairy. She heard shouts from beyond the orchard--it was
her father stacking in the haggard; she heard her mother talking in the
bar, and the mill-wheel swishing in the pond. It seemed almost wonderful
that the machinery of ordinary life could be working away the same as
ever.

Could she be the same herself? She reached over for a hand-glass to look
at her face. As she took it off the table, it slipped from the tips of
her fingers, and, falling face downwards, it broke. She had a momentary
pang at that accident as at a bad omen, but just then Nancy came up with
a letter. It was the letter which Philip had written at Ballure. When
she was alone again she read it. Then she put it in her bosom. It seemed
to be haunted by the odour of the gorse, the odour of the glen, of the
tholthan, of Philip, and of all delights.

A faint ghost of shame came to frighten her. Had she sinned against her
sex? 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 face
grew hot. She knew that she was blushing, and she covered up her head
as if her lover were there to see. Such fears did not last long. Her joy
was too bold to be afraid of tangible things. So overwhelming was her
happiness that her only fear was lest she might awake at some moment and
find that she was asleep now, and everything had been a dream.

That was Friday, and towards noon word came from Kirk Michael that the
Deemster had died on the afternoon of the day before.

"Then they ought to put Philip Christian in his place," she said
promptly; "I'm sure no one deserves it better."

They had been talking in low tones in the kitchen with their backs to
her, but faced about with looks of astonishment.

"Sakes alive, Kirry," cried Nancy, "is it yourself it was? What were you
saying a week ago?"

"Well, do you expect a girl to be saying the one thing always?" laughed
Kate.

"Aw, no," said Cæsar. "A woman's opinions isn't usually as stiff as the
tail of a fighting Tom cat. They're more coming and going, of a rule."

Next day, Saturday, she received Philip's second letter, the letter
written at Douglas after the supper and the arrival of Pete's
telegram. It was written crosswise, in a hasty hand, on a half-sheet
of note-paper, and was like a postscript, without signature or
superscription:--.

"Most urgent. Must see you immediately. Meet me at Port Mooar at two
o'clock to-morrow. We can talk there without interruption. Be brave, my
dear. 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 the
Deemster had hastened things--that was the meaning of the urgency. Port
Mooar was near to Ballure--that was why she had to go so far. They would
have to face gossip, perhaps backbiting, perhaps even abuse--that was
the reason she had to be brave. Why and how the Deemster's death should
affect her marriage with Philip was a matter she did not puzzle out.
She had vague memories of girls marrying in delightful haste and sailing
away with their husbands, and being gone before you had time to think
they were to go. But this new fact of her life was only a part of
the great mystery, and was not to be explained by everyday ideas and
occurrences.

Kate ran up to dress, and came down like a bud bursting into flower. She
had dressed more carefully than ever. Philip had great expectations; he
must not be disappointed. Making the excuse of shopping, she was setting
off towards Ramsey, when her father shouted from the stable that he was
for driving the same way. The mare was harnessed to the gig, and they
got up together.

Cæsar had made inquiries and calculations. He had learned that the
_Johannesburg_, from Cape Town, arrived in Liverpool the day before; and
he concluded that Pete's effects would come by the _Peveril_, the weekly
steamer to Ramsay, on Saturday morning, The _Peveril_ left Liverpool at
eight; 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 but
there's something for yourself? It's my duty as a pastor, too, for
there'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 of
temptation. You may exhort with them till you're black in the face, but
it's throwing good money in the mud. Just _chuck!_ No ring at all; no
way responsive!"

Kate was silent, and Cæsar added familiarly, "Of course, it's my right
too, 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't
be looking so hard. It's truth enough, girl. I've had advocate's
opinion."

Kate had looked, but had not listened. The matter of her father's talk
was too trivial, it's interest was too remote. As they drove, she kept
glancing 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 along
with 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 father
not to wait for her on going home. Cæsar moistened his forefinger and
held 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. Passing
Ballure House, she found herself treading softly. It was like holy
ground. She did not look across; she gave no sign; there was only a
tremor of the eyelids, a quiver of the mouth, and a tightening of the
hand that held her purse, as, with head down, she passed on. Going by
the water-trough, she saw the bullet-head of Black Tom looking seaward
over 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," said
Tom.

He glowered at her as at a scout of the enemy, but she did not mind
that. She was very happy. The sun was still shining. On reaching the
top of the brow, she began to skip and run where the road descends by
Folieu. Thus, with a light heart and a light step, thinking ill of no
one, 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 the
water but a line of black smoke from the funnel of a steamship which had
not yet risen above the horizon.




VI.

Philip put up his horse at the Hibernian, a mile farther on the
high-road, and the tongue of the landlady, Mistress Looney went like
a mill-race while he ate his dinner. She had known three generations of
his 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, who
were "neither good nor middling." She was also full of sage counsel,
advising marriage with a warm girl having "nice things at her--nice
lands and pigs and things"--as a ready way to square the "bobbery" of
thirty years ago at Ballawhaine.

Philip left his plate half full, and rose from the table to go down to
Port Mooar.

"But, boy veen, you've destroyed nothing,", cried the landlady. And then
coaxingly, 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 is
closing."

He took the road that Pete had haunted as a boy on returning home from
school in the days when Kate lived at Cornaa, going through the network
of paths by the mill, and over the brow by Ballajora. The new miller was
pulling down the thatched cottage in which Kate had been born to put
up a slate house. They had built a porch for shelter to the chapel, and
carved the figure of a slaughtered lamb on a stone in the gable. Another
lamb--a living lamb--was being killed by the butcher of Ballajora as
Philip went by the shambles. The helpless creature, with its inverted
head swung downwards from the block, looked at him with its piteous
eyes, and gave forth that distressful cry which is the last wild appeal
of the stricken animal when it sees death near, and has ceased to fight
for life.

The air was quiet, and the sea was calm, but across the Channel a
leaden sky seemed to hover over the English mountains, though they were
still light and apparently in sunshine. As Philip reached Port Mooar, a
cart was coming out of it with a load of sea-wrack for the land, and a
lobster-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 his
boat, pulled up sail, and rode away.

Philip looked at his watch and then walked down the beach. Coming to a
cave, 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 recent
fire. Suddenly he remembered the cave. It was the cave of the Carasdhoo
men. He éould hear the voice of Pete in its rumbling depths; he could
hear and see himself. "Shall we save the women, Pete?--we always do."
"Aw, yes, the women--and the boys." The tenderness of that memory was
too much for Philip. He came out of the cave, and walked back over the
shore.

"She will come by the church," he thought, and he climbed the cliffs
to look out. A line of fir-trees grew there, a comb of little misshapen
ghoul-like things, stunted by the winds that swept over the seas in
winter. In a fork of one of these a bird's nest of last year was still
hanging; but it was now empty, songless, joyless, and dead.

"She's here." he told himself, and he drew his breath noisily. A white
figure had turned the road by the sundial, and was coming on with the
step of a greyhound.

The black clouds above the English mountains were heeling down on the
land. There was a storm on the other coast, though the sky over the
island was still fine. The steamship had risen above the horizon, and
was heading towards the bay.




VII.

She met him on the hill slope with a cry of joy, and kissed him. It came
into 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, her
voice 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 was
going to say? Didn't she guess what this serious something must be? To
prolong the delicious suspense before hearing it, she pretended to be
absorbed in the things about her. She looked aside at the sea, and up
at the banks, and down at the little dubbs of salt water as she skipped
across them, crying out at sight of the sea-holly, the anemone, and
the sea-mouse shining like fire, but still holding to Philip's arm and
bounding 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 the
white horses out yonder--far out beyond the steamer. Davy's putting on
the coppers for the parson, eh?"

She caught the grave expression of Philip's face, and drew herself up
with 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, she
said, "Well, sir, why don't you begin? Perhaps you think I'll cry out. I
won't--I promise you I won't."

But she grew uneasy at the settled gravity of his face, and the joy
gradually died off her own. When Philip spoke, his voice was like a
cracked echo of itself.

"You remember what you said, Kate, when I brought you that last letter
from 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 was
very 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--jumping
so 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 forgive
me, 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 showed
the disordered state of his soul, but she walked by his side without
the quiver of an eyelid, or a tinge of colour more than usual. Had she
understood?

"Look!" he said, and he drew Pete's telegram from his pocket and gave it
to her.

She opened it easily, and he watched her while she read it, prepared for
a cry, and ready to put his arms about her if she fell. But there was
not a movement save the motion of her fingers, not a sound except
the crinking of the thin paper. He turned his head away. The sun was
shining; there was a steely light on the firs, and here and there a
white breaker was rising like a sea-bird out of the blue surface of the
sea.

"Well?" she said.

"Kate, you astonish me," said Philip. "This comes on us like a
thundercloud, 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, its
confidence, its indifference to all the evil chance of life if only he
loved her still, this had been beyond him. But he disengaged her arms
and said, "We must not live in a fool's paradise, Kate. You promised
yourself to Pete----"

"But, Philip," she said, "that was when I was a child. It was only a
half promise then, and I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't know
what 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 to
claim 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 you
cannot understand. How can you, and how can I tell you? When a girl is
not a woman, but only a child, she is a different person. She can't love
anybody then--not really--not to say love, and the promises she makes
can't count. It was not I that promised myself to Pete--if I did
promise. 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 of
you, living five years abroad, toiling, slaving, saving, encountering
privations, perhaps perils, and all for you, all for love of you. Then
think of him coming home with his heart full of you, buoyed up with the
hope of you, thirsting, starving, and yearning for you, and finding you
lost 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 love
him," she said quietly. "I am sorry--what else can a girl be when she
does not love a young man?"

"He left me to take care of you, too, and you see--you see by the
telegram--he is coming home with faith in my loyalty. How can I tell him
that 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 letter
came--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 it
was all my fault, and I made you love me. _I_ shan't care for anybody's
talk. And it's true, isn't it? Partly true, eh?"

"If I talked to Pete of temptation I should despise myself," said
Philip; and then she threw her head up and said proudly--

"Very well, tell the truth itself--the simple truth, Philip. Say we
tried to be faithful and loyal, and all that, and could not, because we
loved each other, and there was no help for it."

"If I tell him the truth, I shall die of shame," said Philip. "Oh, there
is no way out of this miserable tangle. Whether I cover myself with
deceit, or strip myself of evasion, I shall stain my soul for ever. I
shall become a base man, and year by year sink lower and lower in the
mire of lies and deceit."

She listened with her eyes fixed on his quivering face, and her eyelids
fluttered, and her fond looks began to be afraid.

"Say that we married," he continued; "we should never forget that you
had broken your promise and I my trust. That memory would haunt us as
long as we lived. We should never know one moment's happiness or one
moment'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 between
us always."

"And do you think I should be afraid of that?" she said. "Indeed, no. If
you were with me, Philip, and loved me still, I should not care for all
the 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 guilt
would kill it. How could we go on loving each other with a thing like
that about us all day and all night--sitting at our table--listening to
our talk--standing by our bed? Oh, merciful God!"

The terror of his vision mastered him, and he covered his face with both
hands. She drew them down again and held them in a tight lock in her
fingers. But the stony light of his eyes was more fearful to look
upon, and she said in a troubled voice, "Do you mean, Philip, that
we--could--not marry--now?"

He did not answer, and she repeated the question, looking up into his
face like a criminal waiting for his sentence--her head bent forward and
her mouth open.

"We cannot," he muttered. "God help us, we dare not," he said; and then
he tried to show her again how their marriage was impossible, now that
Pete had come, without treason and shame and misery. But his words
frayed off into silence. He caught the look of her eyes, and it was like
the 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 yet
realise in all its fulness what had happened. It was like a bullet-wound
in battle; first a sense of air, almost of relief, then a pang, and then
overwhelming agony.

They had been walking again, but she slid in front of him as she had
done before. Her arms crept up his breast with a caressing touch, and
linked 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 Pete
is 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 been
playing 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 English
mountains were black by this time. A tempest was raging on the other
shore, though the air on this side was as soft as human breath. .

Presently she stopped, her feet scraped the gravel, and she exclaimed
in 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. The
distance between us is too great."

He struggled to deny it, but he could not. It was part of the truth. He
knew too well how near to being the whole truth it was. Pete had come
at the last moment to cover up his conscience, but Kate was stripping it
naked and showing him the skeleton.

"It's all very well for you," she cried, "but where am I? Why didn't
you leave me alone? Why did you encourage me? Yes, indeed, encourage
me! Didn't you say, though a woman couldn't raise herself in life, a man
could lift her up if he only loved her? And didn't you tell me there was
neither below nor above where there was true liking, and that if a woman
belonged to some one, and some one belonged to her, it was God's sign
that they were equal, and everything else was nothing--pride was nothing
and position was nothing and the whole world was nothing? But now I know
different. The world is between us. It always has been between us, and
you can never belong to me. You will go on and rise up, and I will be
left behind."

Then she broke into frightful laughter. "Oh, I have been a fool! How I
dreamt of being happy! I knew I was only a poor ignorant thing, but I
saw 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 that
deceiving me? You deceived me when you led me to think that you loved
me 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 her
own throat, as if something was strangling her. He did not answer her
reproaches, for he knew well what they were. They were the bitter cry
of her great love, her great misery, and her great jealousy of the
world--the merciless and mysterious power that was luring him away.
After awhile his silence touched her, and she came up to him, full
of remorse, and said, "No, no, Philip, you have nothing to reproach
yourself with. You did not deceive me at all. I deceived myself. It was
my own fault. I led you on--I know that. And yet I've been saying these
cruel things. You'll forgive me, though, will you not? A girl can't help
it sometimes, Philip. Are you crying? You are not crying, are you? Kiss
me, 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 was
about to yield, and was reaching forward to touch her forehead, when
suddenly the child became the woman, and she leapt upon his breast,
and held him fervently, her blood surging, her bosom exulting, her eyes
flaming, and her passionate voice crying, "Philip, you are mine. No, I
will not release you. I don't care about your plans--you shall give
them up. I don't care about your trust--you shall break it. I don't care
about 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 will
be. You _must_ come back to me, sooner or later, if you go away. I know
it, 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 you
remember?... Can you ever forget?... My _husband!_"

The last word came muffled from his breast, where she had buried her
head in the convulsions of her trembling at the moment when her modesty
went down in the fierce battle with a higher pain. But the plea which
seemed to give her the right to cling the closer made the man to draw
apart. It was the old deep tragedy of human love--the ancient inequality
in the bond of man and woman. What she had thought her conquest had
been her vanquishment. He could not help, it--her last word had killed
everything.

"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 would
carry to him your love of me, and bit by bit he would find it out, and
it would kill him. It would kill you, too, for you have called me your
husband, and you could never, never, never forget it."

"I don't want to marry Pete," she said. "If I'm not to marry you, I
don't want to marry any one. But do you mean that I must not marry at
all--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 other
woman 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 from
his neck, and she stepped back from him, shuddering with remorse, and
despair, and shame. She saw herself now for the first time a fallen
woman. Never before had her sin touched her soul. It was at that moment
she fell.

They had come up to the cave by this time, and she sat on the stone at
the mouth of it in a great outburst of weeping. It tore his heart to
hear her. The voice of her weeping was like the distressful cry of the
slaughtered lamb. He had to wrestle with himself not to take her in his
arms and comfort her. The fit of tears spent itself at length, and after
a 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 and
swollen eyes. When she spoke again, it was like one speaking in her
sleep, or under the spell of somebody who had magnetised her.

"It is wrong of me to think so much of myself, as if that were
everything. 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 she
caught up the name and said, "Yes, and Pete too. As you think it would
be wrong to Pete, I will not hold to you. Oh, it will be wrong to me
as well! But I will not give you the pain of turning a deaf ear to my
troubles any more."

She was struggling with a pitiless hope that perhaps she might regain
him 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 and
be 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. I
don't now. It is terrible. If I could only have you to myself! If you
could 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 he
gripped 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 hand
that hung by his side, and said in a voice like a child's, "Fancy! this
is 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 anybody
else to me, and I will be like anybody else to you. Miss Cregeen, that
will be my name and you will be Mr. Christian. When you see me you'll
say to yourself, 'Yes, poor thing; long ago, when she was a girl, I made
her love me. Nobody ever loved me like that.' And fancy! when you pass
me 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 lip
with 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 we
had 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 parted
from you like this, though it is so hard, so cruel, than never to have
met 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 side
by side. She let his hand slip from the tips of her fingers, and drew
silently away. At three paces apart she paused, but he gave no sign. She
climbed the low brow of the hill slowly, very slowly, trying to command
her throat, which was fluttering, and looking back through her tears as
she went. Philip heard the shingle slip under her feet while she toiled
up the cliff, and when she reached the top the soft thud on the turf
seemed 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 a
hand, a sob, a sigh, her own name, "Kate," and she was ready to fly back
even then, wounded and humiliated as she was, a poor torn bird that had
been struggling in the lime. But no; he was silent and motionless, and
she disappeared behind the hill. He saw her go, and all the light of
heaven went with her.




VIII.

It was so far back home, so much farther than it had been to come. The
course is short and easy going out to sea when the tide is with you, and
the water is smooth, and the sun is shining, but long and hard coming
back to harbour, when the waves have risen, and the sky is low, and the
wind is on your bow.

So far, so very far. She thought everybody looked at her, and knew her
for what she was--a broken, forsaken, fallen woman. And she was so tired
too; 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, which
had spent itself on the other coast, seemed to hang over the island.
There were breakers where the long dead sea had been, and the petrel
outside was scudding close to the white curves, and uttering its dismal
note.

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 the
steamer had passed round the Head, and that the cart he had met at the
mouth of the port had come back empty to the cave for another load of
sea-wrack. The lobster-fisher, too, had beached his boat near by, and
was shouting through the hollow air, wherein every noise seemed to
echo with a sepulchral quake, "The block was going whistling at the
mast-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 wooden
canopy above him, the English coat of arms behind, and a great book in
front; his hands shook as he turned the leaves; he felt his leg hang
heavily; people bowed low to him, and dropped their voices in his
presence; he was the Deemster, and he was old. A young woman stood in
the dock, dripping water from her hair, and she had covered her face
with her hands. In the witness-box a young man was standing, and his
head was down. The man had delivered the woman to dishonour; she had
attempted 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 am
compelled to punish her, but oh to heaven that I could punish you in her
place! What have you to say for yourself?" "I have nothing to say for
myself," the young man answered, and he lifted his head and the old
Deemster saw his face. Then Philip awoke with a smothered scream, for
the young man's face had been his own.




IX.

When Cæsar got to the quay, he looked about with watchful eyes, as if
fearing he might find somebody there before him. The coast was clear,
and he gave a grunt of relief. After fixing the horse-cloth, and
settling the mare in a nose-bag, he began to walk up and down the fore
part of the harbour, still keeping an eager look-out. As time went on
he grew comfortable, exchanged salutations with the harbour-master, and
even whistled a little to while away the time.

"Quiet day, Mr. Quayle."

"Quiet enough yet, Mr. Cregeen; but what's it saying? 'The greater the
calm the nearer the south wind.'"

By the time that Cæsar, from the end of the pier, saw the smoke of the
steamer coming round Kirk Maughold Head, he was in a spiritual, almost
a mournful, mood. He was feeling how melancholy was the task of going to
meet the few possessions, the clothes and such like, which were all that
remained 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 and
confusion. Cæsar waited, with one hand on the mare's neck, until the
worst of it was over. Then he went aboard, and said in a solemn voice
to the sailor at the foot of the gangway, "Anything here the property of
Mr. Peter Quilliam?"

"That's his luggage," said the sailor, pointing to a leather trunk of
moderate 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 thought
worth 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 the
substance of things hoped for, a big, ugly hand laid hold of it, and
began 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 the
quay."

"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 on
end and bent his back to lift it.

But Cæsar put a heavy hand on top and said, "Gough bless me, man, but I
am sorry for thee. Mammon hath entered into thy heart, Tom."

"He have just popped out of thine, then," said Black Tom, swirling the
trunk on one of its corners.

But Cæsar held on, and said, "I don't know in the world why you should
let the devil of covetousness get the better of you."

"I don't mane to--let go the chiss," said Black Tom, and in another
minute he had it on his shoulder.

"Now, I believe in my heart," said Cæsar, "I would be forgiven a little
violence," 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 Black
Tom under his load.

"The Philistines be upon thee, Samson," cried Cæsar, and with that there
was a struggle.

In the midst of the uproar, while the men were shouting into each
other's faces, and the trunk was rocking between them shoulder high,
a sunburnt man, with a thick beard and a formidable voice, a stalwart
fellow in a pilot jacket and wide-brimmed hat, came hurrying up the
cabin-stairs, and a dog came running behind him. A moment later he had
parted the two men, and the trunk was lying at his feet.

Black Tom fell back a step, lifted his straw hat, scratched his bald
crown, and muttered in a voice of awe. "Holy sailor!"

Cæsar's face was livid, and his eyes went up toward his forehead. "Lord
have 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 a
ghost."

"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," said
Pete.

"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 on
the chin, eh? Foreign parts has made a man of you, Peter. The straight
you're like the family, too! You'll be coming up to the trough with
me--the ould home, you know. I'll be whipping the chiss ashore in a
jiffy, only Cæsar's that eager to help, it's wonderful. No, you'll not
then?"

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 business
best."

"So do you, Mr. Collecting Box," said Black Tom. "But your head's as
empty as a mollag, and as full of wind as well. It's a regular ould
human mollag you are, anyway, floating other people's nets and taking
all that's coming to them."

They were ashore by this time; one of the quay porters was putting
the trunk into the gig, and Cæsar was removing the horse-cloth and the
nose-bag.

"Get up, Mr. Peter, and don't listen to him," said Cæsar. "If
my industry and integrity have been blessed with increase under
Providence----"

"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," said
Cæsar, taking his seat beside Pete.

"You haven't though, you miser," said Black Tom; "you'd sell your soul
for sixpence, and you'd raffle your ugly ould body if you could get
anybody to take tickets."

"Go home, Thomas," said Cæsar, twiddling the reins, "go home and try for
the future to be a better man."

But that was too much for Black Tom. "Better man, is it? Come down on
the quay and up with your fiss, and I'll show you which of us is the
better man."

A moment later Cæsar and Pete were rattling over the cobbles of the
market-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 for
spiritual things, though."

"Going west, is she, poor ould angel? There ought to be a good piece of
daylight at her yet, for all. And--and Nancy Joe?"

"A happy sinner still," said Cæsar. "I suppose, sir, you'd be making
good money out yonder now? We were hearing the like, anyway."

"Money!" said Pete. "Well, yes. Enough to keep off the divil and the
coroner. 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 was
nearly 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 the
street.

"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 me
down! 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 was
not to wait for her--she would perhaps be home before him. Amid a crowd
of the "mob beg" children of the streets, to whom he showered coppers
to be scrambled for, Pete got up again to Cæsar's side, and they set off
for Sulby. The wind had risen suddenly, and was hooting down the narrow
streets 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 the
first 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 was
up 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--that
your black boys left you for dead?"

"They did that, bad luck to them," said Pete; "but I was thinking it no
sin to disappoint them, though."

"Well, well! lying began with the world, and with the world it will
end," said Cæsar.

As they passed Ballywhaine, Pete shouted into Cæsar's ear, above the
wind that was roaring in the trees, and scattering the ripening leaves
in 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 Pete
behind his hand.

"Yes, but failing, failing, failing," shouted Cæsar. "The world's
getting too heavy for the man. Debts here, and debts there, and debts
everywhere."

"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 Manx
Fairy," Pete's excitement grew wild, and he leaped up from his seat and
shouted 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 of
the 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, the
haggard! 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 above
the tumult of the wind, which had risen by this time to the strength of
a gale.

"Mother," cried Cæsar, going in at the porch, "gentleman here from
foreign 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 an
instant.

"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 an
indulgent 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," said
Cæsar. "It's a sort of a resurrection. I thought I'd have a sight up
to the packet for his chiss, poor fellow, and, behould ye, who should I
meet in the two eyes but the man himself!"

"Aw, dear! It's wonderful I it's terrible! I'm silly with the joy," said
Grannie.

"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 live
I'll take no more of them, and if that Kelly, the postman, comes here
again, I'll take the bellows to him."

"So you thought I was gone for good, Grannie?" said Pete. "Well, I
thought so too. 'Will I die?' I says to myself times and times; but I
bethought me at last there wasn't no sense in a good man like me laving
his bones out on the bare Veldt yonder; so, you see, I spread my wings
and came home again."

"It's the Lord's doings--it's marvellous in our eyes," said Cæsar; and
Grannie, who had recovered herself and was bustling about, cried--

"Let me have a right look at him, then. Goodness me, the whisker! And as
soft as Manx carding from the mill, too. I like him best when he takes
off his hat. Well, I'm proud to see you, boy. 'Deed, but I wouldn't have
known you, though. 'Who's the gentleman in the gig with father?' thinks
I. And I'd have said it was the Dempster himself, if he hadn't been dead
and in his coffin."

"That'll do, that'll do," roared Pete. "That's Grannie putting the fun
on me."

"It's no use talking, but I can't keep quiet; no I can't," cried
Grannie, and with that she whipped up a bowl from the kitchen dresser
and 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 head
toward the stairs, and Nancy Joe, who had been standing silent until
now, 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't
she 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 me
the cloth and I'll lay it myself. The cloth, I'm saying, woman. Did you
never hear of a tablecloth? Where is it? Aw, dear knows where it is
now! It's in the parlour; no, it's in the chest on the landing; no, it's
under 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 you
dry, Pete. Is it ale you'll have, or a drop of hard stuff? You'll wait
for Kate? Now I like that. There's some life at these totallers. 'Steady
abroad?' How dare you, Nancy Joe? You're a deal too clever. Of course
he's been steady abroad--steady as a gun."

"But Kate," said Pete, tramping the sanded floor, "is she changed at
all?"

"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's
sprung 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 Nancy
Joe.

"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 a
standard rase."

"Hould your tongue, woman," shouted Pete. "I'll see herself first, and
I'm dying to do it."

Cæsar came back with the gorse; Nancy fed the fire and Grannie stirred
the oatmeal and water. And while the cakes were baking, Pete tramped the
kitchen and examined everything and recognised old friends with a roar.

"Bless me! the same place still. There's the clock on the shelf, with
the scratch on its face and the big finger broke at the joint, and the
lath--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 of
the reach of Pete's dog, and from that elevation was eyeing him
steadfastly), "and the slowrie--and the kettle--and the poker--my
gracious, the very poker----"

"Now, did you ever!" cried Grannie with amazement.

"And--yes--no--it is, though--I'll swear it before the
Dempster--that's," said Pete, picking up a three-legged stool, "that's
the very stool she was sitting on herself in the fire-seat in front of
the turf closet. Let me sit there now for the sake of ould times gone
by."

He put the stool in the fireplace and sat on it, shouting as he did so
between a laugh and a cry, "Aw, Grannie, bogh--Grannie, bogh! to think
there'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 the
fire 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 burning
to a cinder."

"Let it burn, mother," shouted Pete. "It's the way she was doing herself
when she was young and forgetting. Shillings a-piece for all that's
wasted. Aw, the smell of it's sweet!"

So saying he piled the gorse on the fire, ramming it under the griddle
and choking it behind the crow. And while the oatcake crackled and
sparched and went black, he sniffed up the burning odour, and laughed
and 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 of
laughing, he will, though--yes, he will!" But behind the apron she was
blubbering to Nancy, "It's coming home, woman, that's it--it's just
coming home again, poor boy!"

By this time word of Pete's return had gone round Sulby? and the
bar-room was soon thronged with men and women, who looked through the
glass partition into the kitchen at the bronzed and bearded man who sat
smoking by the fire, with his dog curled up at his feet. "There'll be a
wedding soon," said one. "The girl's in luck," said another. "Success to
the fine girl she always was, and lucky they kept her from the poor
toot 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 a
settled look of age, and a gravity of expression that seemed to say he
had got over the follies of youth, and was now reserved and determined
to keep the peace. His back was curved in as if a cart-wheel had gone
over his spine, he had gigantic ears, a stump of a tail, a coat thin and
prickly 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, but
there's plenty of ears at him. A handy sort of a dog, only a bit spoiled
in his childhood. Not fit for much company anyway, and no more notion of
dacent behaviour than my ould shoe. Down, Dempster, down."

It was Pete. He was greeted with loud welcomes, and soon filled the room
all round with the steaming odour of spirits and water.

"You've the Manx tongue at you still, Mr. Quilliam," said Jonaique; "and
you'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 like
Dempster 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, the
drink! 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 for
it?"

"Well," said John the Clerk, "they're talking and talking, and some's
saying this one and others that one; but the most is saying your ould
friend 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 to
fail. Pete became restless, and walked to and fro, peering out at
intervals by the window that looked on to the road. At this there was
some 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's
that 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 going
off at a slant awhile ago, and now the thick skate yonder is hanging
mortal low."

"Take your time, sir," said Cæsar. "No need to send round the Cross
Vustha (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 life
in 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?" said
Jonaique.

"Sort of Dempsters, yes. Called one of them Ould Necessity, because it
knows no law. He rigged up the statute books atop of his stool for a
high 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 no
time. There'll be chapels now, eh? Chapels and conferences, and proper
religious instruction?"

"Divil a chapel, sir, only a rickety barn, belonging to some-ones
they're calling the Sky Pilots to. Wanted the ould miser that runs it to
build them a new tabernacle, but he wouldn't part till a lump of plaster
fell on his bald head at a love-feast, and then he planked down
a hundred pound, and they all shouted, 'Hit him again, Lord--you
might!'... D'ye hear that, then? That's the water coming down from the
gill. I can't stand no more of it, Grannie."

Grannie was at the door, struggling to hold it against the wind, while
she looked out into the gathering darkness. "'Deed, but I'm getting
afraid of it myself," she said, "and dear heart knows where Kirry can be
at this time of night." "I'm off to find her," said Pete, and, catching
up 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 gale
from the north-east. Cæsar slipped through the dairy to see if the
outbuildings were safe, and came back with a satisfied look. The stable
and cow-house were barred, the barns were shut up, the mill-wheel was on
the 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 done
by the storm. It was reported that the Chicken Rock Lighthouse was blown
down, that the tide had risen to twenty-five feet in Ramsey and torn up
the streets, and that a Peel fisherman had been struck by his mainsail
into the sea and drowned.

More came into the house at every minute, and among them were all the
lonesome and helpless ones within a radius of a mile--Blind Jane, who
charmed blood, but could not charm the wind; Shemiah, the prophet, with
beard down to his waist and a staff up to his shoulder; and old Juan
Vessy, who "lived on the houses" in the way of a tramp. The people
who had been there already were afraid to go out, and Grannie, still
wringing her hands and crying "Kate, Kate," called everybody into the
kitchen to gather about the fire. There they bemoaned their boys on the
sea, told stories of former storms, and quarrelled about the years of
wrecks and the sources of the winds that caused them.

The gale increased to fearful violence, and sometimes the wind sounded
like sheets flapping against the walls, sometimes like the deep boom of
the 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 struggling
to escape, and then the smoke came down in whorls and filled the
kitchen. They had to put out the fire to keep themselves from
suffocation, and to sit back from the fireplace to protect themselves
from cold. The door of the porch flew open, and they barricaded it with
long-handled brushes; the windows rattled in their frames, and they
blocked them up with the tops of the tables. In spite of all efforts
to shut out the wind, the house was like a basket, and it quaked like a
ship at sea. "I never heard the like on the water itself, and I'm used
of the sea, too," said one. The others groaned and mumbled prayers.

Kelly the Thief, who had come in unopposed by Grannie, was on his knees
in one corner with his face to the wall, calling on the Lord to remember
that he had seen things in letters--stamps and such--but had never
touched them. John the Clerk was saying that he had to bury the
Deemster; Jonaique, the barber, that he had been sent for to "cut" the
Bishop; and Claudius Kewley, the farmer, that he had three fields of
barley still uncut and a stack of oats unthatched. "Oh, Lord," cried
Claudius, "let me not die till I've got nothing to do!"

Cæsar stood like a strong man amidst their moans and groans, their
bowings of the head and clappings of the hands, and, when he heard the
farmer, 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 own
harvest saved," and then Cæsar had no resource but to punish the man in
prayer. "The Lord had sent His storm to reprove some that were making
too sure of His mercies; but there was grace in the gale, only they
wouldn't be patient and trust to God's providence; there was milk in
the 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 he
leapt abruptly to his feet with a look of vexation. "I believe in my
heart that's the mill-wheel broken loose," said he, "and if it is, the
corn 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 kiln
fire first."

When Pete stepped out of the porch, he felt himself smitten as by an
invisible wing, and he gasped like a fish with too much air. A quick
pain 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 had
fallen, but a green rent was torn in the leaden sky, and through this
the full moon appeared.

When he got to Ramsey the tide was up to the old cross, slates were
flying like kites, and the harbour sounded like a battlefield with its
thunderous roar of rigging. He made for the dressmaker's, and heard that
Kate had not been there for six hours. At the draper's he learned that
at two o'clock in the afternoon she had been seen going up Ballure. The
sound rocket was fired as he pushed through the town. A schooner riding
to an anchor in the bay was flying her ensign for help. The sea was
terrific--a slaty grey, streaked with white foam like quartz veins; but
the men who had been idling on the quay when the water was calm were now
struggling, chafing, and fighting to go out on it, for the blood of the
old Vikings was in them.

Going by the water-trough, Pete called on Black Tom, who was civil
and conciliatory until he heard his errand, then growled with
disappointment, but nevertheless answered his question. Yes, he had
seen the young woman. She went up early in the "everin," and left him
good-day. Giving this grateful news, Black Tom could not deny himself
a word of bitterness to poison the pleasure. "And when you are finding
her," said he, "you'll be doing well to take her in tow, for I'm
thinking 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 after
him.

On the breast of the hill there was the meeting of two roads, one of
them leading up to the "Hibernian," the other going down to Port Mooar.
To resolve the difficulty of choice, Pete inquired at a cottage standing
some paces beyond, and as Kate had not been seen to pass up the higher
road, he determined to take the lower one. But he gathered no tidings
by the way, for Billy by the mill knew nothing, and the woman by the
sundial had gone to bed. At length he dipped into Port Mooar, and came
to a little cottage like a child's Noah's ark, with its tiny porch and
red light inside, looking out on the white breakers that were racing
along the beach. It was the cottage of the lobster-fisher. Pete inquired
if 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 explain
something which had begun to perplex him--why Philip had not met him at
the quay, and why Kate had not heard of his coming. Clearly Philip was
at present at Ballure. He had not yet received the telegram addressed to
Douglas.

Pete turned back. Surely Kate had called somewhere. She would be at home
by this time. He tried to run, but the wind was now in his face. It was
veering 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 his
hat. His hair whipped his ears like rods. Sometimes he was swept into
the hedge; often he was brought to his knees. Still he toiled along
through sheets of spray that glistened with the colours of a rainbow,
and ran over the ground like driven rain. His eyes smarted, and the
taste on his lips was salt.

The moon was now riding at the full through a wild flecked sky, and
Pete could clearly see, as he returned towards the bay, a crowd of human
figures on the cliffs above Port Lewaige. Quaking with undefined fears,
he pushed on until he had joined them. The schooner, abandoned by her
crew, had parted her cable, and was rolling like a blinded porpoise
towards 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 leapt
over her with a howl, the water swirled through her bulwarks and filled
her hatches, her rudder was unshipped, her sails were torn from their
gaskets, and the floating home wherein men had sailed, and sung,
and slept, and laughed, and jested, was a broken wreck in the heavy
wallowings of the waves.

Kate had not returned when Pete got back to Sulby, but the excitement of
her 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 the
dairy door in a voice of thunder, which went off at the end of his
beard 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 was
stripped, and the mare was tearing herself to pieces in a roaring "pit
of hell"--was there never a shoulder for the door? The cow-house thatch
was 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. "I
picked up news of her coming back by Claughbane," said Pete, "and traced
her 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 resource
but groans. Nancy was moaning by her side. The rest were full of their
own troubles. Blind Jane was bewailing her affliction.

"You can all see," she cried, "but I'm not knowing the harm that's
coming on me."

"Hush, woman, hush," said Pete; "we're all same as yourself half our
lives--we're all blind at night."

In the midst of the tumult a knock came to the door, and Pete made a
plunge towards the porch.

"Wait," cried Cæsar. "Nobody else comes here to-night except the girl
herself. Another wind like the last and we'll have the roof off the
house too."

Then he called to the new-comer, with his face to the porch door, and
the 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, and
half 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 family
she 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 swirl
through the porch.

"When did you see her, Joney, and where?" said the voice of Pete; and
the 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 the
bar--

"Take Cæsar's topcoat over your monkey-jacket."

"I've sail enough already for a wind like this, mother," cried the
voice of Pete, and then the swirling sound in the porch went off with a
long-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 and
struggled up the glen, dragging Joney behind him. They came to her house
at last. One half of the thatch lay over the other half; the rafters
were bare like the ribs of the wreck; the oat-cake peck was rattling on
the lath; the meal-barrel in the corner was stripped of its lid, and
the meal was whirling into the air like a waterspout; the dresser was
stripped, the broken crockery lay on the uncovered floor, and the iron
slowrie hanging over the place of the fire was swinging and striking
against the wall, and ringing like a knell. And in the midst of this
scene of desolation the idiot boy was placidly sleeping on his naked
bed, and over it the moon was scudding through a tattered sky.

The night wore on, and the company in the kitchen listened long, and
sometimes heard sounds as of voices crying in the wind, but Pete did not
return. 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 they
were 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 have
stirred. For the first time within anyone's recollection, Nancy Joe was
on 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 twenty
years and better since I asked anything of Thee before and if Thou wilt
only take away this wind, I'll promise not to say another prayer for
twenty years more."

"Say it in Manx, woman," moaned Grannie. "I always say my prayers in
Manx 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 they
began to sing, all down on their knees, their eyes tightly closed, and
their hands clasped before their faces. They sang of heaven and its
peaceful plains, its blue lakes and sunny skies, its golden cities and
emerald gates, its temples and its tabernacles, where "congregations
ne'er break up and Sabbaths never end." It was some comfort to drown
with the wild discord of their own voices the fearful noises of the
tempest. When they finished the hymn, they began on it again, keeping
it up without a break, sweeping the dying note of the last word into
the 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, to
smother the fear of it, they sang yet louder. The gust came a second
time, and Cæsar cried--

"Again, brothers," and away they went with another wild whoop through
the 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, fierce
and wild-eyed, and green with the drift of the salt foam caked thick on
his face, stepped over the threshold with the unconscious body of Kate
in his arms and the idiot boy peering over his shoulder.

"Thank the Lord for an answer to prayer," cried Cæsar. "Where did you
find 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 odour
of seaweed; the sky was round as the inside of a shell, and pale pink
like the shadow of flame; the water was smooth and silent; the hills
had lost the memory of the storm, and land and sea lay like a sleeping
child.

In this broad and steady morning Kate came back to consciousness. She
had slid out of delirium into sleep as a boat slides out of the open
sea into harbour, and when she awoke there was a voice in her ears that
seemed to be calling to her from the quay. It was a familiar voice, and
yet it was unfamiliar; it was like the voice of a friend heard for the
first time after a voyage. It seemed to come from a long way off, and
yet to be knocking at the very door of her heart. She kept her eyes
closed for a moment and listened; then she opened them and looked again.

The light was clouded and yet dazzling, as if glazed muslin were
shaking before her eyes. Grannie was sitting by her bedside, knitting in
silence.

"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!" cried
Grannie.

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 safe
out of the storm."

"The storm?"

"Yes, the storm, woman. There warn such a storm on the island I don't
know the years. He found you in the tholthan up the glen. Lost your way
in 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!" called
Grannie, 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 the
room. "That's the man himself. Sitting on the bottom step same as
an ould bulldog, and keeping watch that nobody bothers you. The
good-naturedst bulldog breathing, though, and he hasn't had a wink on
the night. Saved your life, darling. He did; yes, he did, praise God."

At mention of the tholthan, Kate had remembered everything. She dropped
back on the pillow, and cried, in a voice of pain, "Why couldn't he
leave me to die?"

Grannie chuckled knowingly at that, and wiped her eyes with the corner
of her apron. "The bogh is herself, for sure. When they're wishing
themselves dead they're always mending father! But I'll go down
instead. 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 the
unceiled joists, saying sharply but with a tremor, too, "Nancy Joe, why
aren'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 fasting
for ever?"

"What's that?" shouted the familiar voice again. "Was it herself you
were 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 thinking
she was for spaking no more."

"Out of the way," cried Nancy, as if pushing past somebody to whip the
kettle on to the fire. "These men creatures have no more rising in their
hearts than bread without balm."

"You're balm enough yourself, Nancy, for a quiet husband. But lend me a
hould of the bellows there--I'll blow up like blazes."

Cæsar came into the house on the top of this commotion, grumbling as
he stepped over the porch, "The wind has taken half the stacks of my
haggard, mother."

"No matter, sir," shouted Pete. "The best of your Melliah is saved
upstairs."

"Is she herself?" said Cæsar. "Praise His name!"

And over the furious puffing and panting and quacking of the bellows and
the cracking and roaring of the fire, the voice of Pete came in gusts
through the floor, crying, "I'll go mad with the joy! I will; yes, I
will, 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 up
the stairs, it crept through the chinks in the floor, it went over the
roof. But Kate lay on her pillow and moaned, and turned her face to the
wall.

Presently Nancy Joe appeared in the bedroom, making herself tidy at the
doorway 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 the
born blockhead that said the girl's wedding was as like to be in the
churchyard as in the church?"

"That's me," said a deep voice from the middle of the stairs, and then
Nancy 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 much
sense 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,' says
he----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 as
a live conger on the quay, but looking as soft about the eyes as if he'd
been 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 shocking
fine young fellow--he's all that.... But just listen!"

There was a fissing sound from below, and a sense of burning. "What do
I always say? You can never trust a man to have sense enough to take it
off. 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 boots
and was walking lightly in his stockings; but Kate felt his approach by
his asthmatic breathing. As he stepped in at the door he cried, in the
high pitch of the preacher, "Praise the Lord, O my soul, and all that is
within me praise His holy name!" Then he fell to the praise of Pete as
well.

"He brought you out of the jaws of death and the mouth of Satan. It
was a sign, Katherine, and we can't do better than follow the Spirit's
leading. He saved your life, woman, and that's giving him the right to
have and to hould it. Well, I've only one child in this life, but, if
it'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 burying
him to-morrow, but men that drink don't keep. They'll be putting him in
the 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's
children; but many a good calf is from a bad cow, and that's good news
for the man himself. It's been the way with Peter anyway, for the
Lord has delivered him and prospered him, and I'm hearing on the best
authority 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 of
the room.

"Come now, bogh; take a spoonful, and I'll lave you to yourself," said
Grannie.

"Yes, leave me to myself," said Kate, sipping wearily; and then Grannie
went 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 Kate
knew that the empty basin was being shown around.

Kate lay back on the pillow, listened to the tolling of the bell, and
shuddered. She thought it a ghostly thing that the first voice she had
heard on coming as from another world had been the voice of Pete, and
the first name dinned into her ears had been Pete's name. The procession
of the Deemster's funeral passed the house, and she closed her eyes
and seemed to see it--the coffin on the open cart, the men on horseback
riding beside it, and then the horses tied up to posts and gates
about the churchyard, and the crowd of men of all conditions at the
grave-side. In her mind's eye, Kate was searching through that crowd for
somebody. 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 heart
stood still.

The voices were smothered for a moment (as the buzzing is when the bees
enter the hive), and then began with as sharper ring from the rooms
below.

"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 go
through the air.

"I didn't hear of it until this morning," said Philip. "The postman told
me at breakfast-time, and I called on Dr. Mylechreest coming out. If I
had known----I didn't sleep much last night, anyway; but if I had ever
imagined----"

"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'm
saying it before Pete here, that ought to know and doesn't."

"Don't I, though?" came in the other voice--the resounding voice--the
voice full of laughter and tears together. "But I do that, Grannie, same
as 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't
start, mother, blow high, blow low."

Kate heard another broken sound as of painful protest, and then with a
sickening 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 was
broad morning again, and the house was full of the smell of boiling
stock-fish. By that she knew it was another day, and the hour of early
breakfast. 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 heartsome
voice of Pete talking of the changes in the island since he went
away. 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 a
flight of birds to Austrillya and Cleveland and the Cape, and I don't
know 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 a
whisper. "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 her
people the old relations with Pete were to stand. Everybody expected her
to marry Pete; everybody seemed anxious to push the marriage on.

Grannie came up with her breakfast, pulled aside the blind, and opened
the window.

"Nancy will tidy the room a taste," she said coaxingly, "and then I
shouldn'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 man
for all."

Kate tried to protest and explain, but courage failed her. She only
said, "Not yet, mother. I'm not fit to see him yet."

"Say no more about it. Not to-day at all--to-morrow maybe," said
Grannie, 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 the
road, 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 to
improve?"

"As nice as nice, sir," said Grannie.

Kate crept out of bed, stole to the window, hid behind the curtains, and
listened intently.

"What a mercy all goes well," he said; Kate could hear the heaving of
his breath. "Is Pete about?"

"No, but gone to Ramsey, sir," said Grannie. "It's like you'll meet him
if you are going on to Ballure."

"I must be getting back to business," said Philip, and the horse swirled
across the road.

"Did you ride from Douglas on purpose, then?" said Grannie, and Philip
answered with an audible effort--

"I was anxious. What an escape she has had! I could scarcely sleep last
night for thinking of it."

Kate put her hand to her throat to keep back the cry that was bubbling
up, and her mother's voice came thick and deep.

"The Lord's blessing. Master Philip----" she began, but the horse's feet
stamped out everything as it leapt to a gallop in going off.

Kate listened where she knelt until the last beat of the hoofs had died
away in the distance, and then she crept back to bed and covered up her
head in the clothes as before, but with a storm of other feelings. "He
loves me," she told herself with a thrill of the heart. "He loves
me--he loves me still! And he will never, never, never see me married to
anybody else."

She felt an immense relief now, and suddenly found strength to think of
facing Pete. It even occurred to her to send for him at once, as a first
step towards removing the impression that the old relations were to
remain. She would be quiet, she would be cold, she would show by her
manner that Pete was impossible, she would break the news gently.

Pete came like the light at Nancy's summons. Kate heard him on the
stairs whispering with Nancy and breathing heavily. Nancy was hectoring
it 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. Promise
me you'll be quiet. She's wake and low and nervous, so no kissing. D'ye
hear me now, no kissing."

"Aw, kissing makes no noise to spake of, woman," whispered Pete; and
then he was in the room.

Kate saw him come, a towering dark figure between her and the door. He
did not speak at first, but slid down to the chair at the foot of the
bed, modestly, meekly, reverently, as if he had entered a sanctuary. His
hand rested on his knee, and she noticed that the wrist was hairy and
tattooed with the three legs of Man.

"Is it you, Pete?" she asked; and then he said in a low tone, almost in
a 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 on
Nancy as if he wanted to burst into sobs but dare not for fear of the
noise, then turned on his chair and seemed on the point of taking to
flight. But just at that instant his dog, which had followed him into
the room, planted its forelegs on the counterpane and looked impudently
into Kate's face.

"Down, Dempster, down!" cried Pete; and after that, the ice being broken
by 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 with
me, 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 as
if 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 little
thing you were when we used to play fishermen together down at Cornaa
Harbour--d'ye remember? The ould kipper-box rolling on a block for
a boat at sea--do you mind it? Yourself houlding a bit of a broken
broomstick in the rope handle for a mast, and me working the
potato-dibber on the ground, first port and then starboard, for rudder
and 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 was
since then. But Pete, being started, laughed uproariously, slapped his
knee, and rattled on.

"Up at the mill, too--d'ye remember that now? Yourself with the top of
a barrel for a flower basket, holding it 'kimbo at your lil hip and
shouting, 'Violets! Swate violets! Fresh violets!'" (He mocked her
silvery treble in his lusty baritone and roared with laughter.)

"And then me, woman, d'ye mind me?--me, with the pig-stye gate atop of
my head for a fish-board, yelling, 'Mackerel! Fine ladies, fresh ladies,
and bellies as big as bishops--Mack-er-el!' Aw, Kirry, Kirry! Aw, the
dear 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 I
know my head was going round like a compass, and my heart thumping a
hundred and twenty pound to the square inch? Did I kiss you and kiss you
while you were lying there useless, and lift you up and hitch your poor
limp arms around my neck, and carry you out of the dirty ould tholthan
that was going to be the death of you--the first job I was doing on
the island, too, coming back to it.... Lord save us, Kitty, what have I
done?"

Kate had dropped back on the pillow, and was sobbing as if her heart
would 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 both
out of the room.

"Out of it," cried Nancy. "Didn't I tell you to be quiet? You great
blethering omathaun, you shall come no more."

Abashed, ashamed, humiliated, and quiet enough now, Pete went slowly
down the stairs.




XIII.

Late that night Kate heard Cæsar and her mother talking together as they
were going to bed. Cæsar was saying--

"I got him on the track of a good house, and he went off to Ramsey this
morning to put a sight on it."

"Dear heart alive, father!" Grannie answered, "Pete isn't home till a
week 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,' and
when she's said it she'll have time enough to get better."

Kate trembled with fear. The matter of her marriage with Pete was going
on without her. A sort of supernatural power seemed to be pushing it
along. Nobody asked if she wished it, nobody questioned that she did so.
It was taken for granted that the old relations would stand. As soon
as she could go about she would be expected to marry Pete. Pete himself
would expect it, because he believed he had her promise; her mother
would expect it, because she had always thought of it as a thing
understood; her father would expect it, because Pete's prosperity had
given him a new view of Pete's piety and pedigree; and Nancy Joe
would expect it, too, if only because she was still haunted by her old
bugbear, the dark shadow of Ross Christian. There was only one way to
break down these expectations, and that was to speak out. But how was a
girl to speak? What was she to say?

Kate pretended to be ill. Three days longer she lay, like a hunted wolf
in its hole, keeping her bed from sheer dread of the consequences of
leaving it. The fourth day was Sunday. It was morning, and the church
bells were ringing. Cæsar had shouted from his bedroom for some one to
tie his bow, then for some one to button his black gloves. He had gone
off at length with the footsteps of the people stepping round to chapel.
The first hymn had been started, and its doleful notes were trailing
through the mill walls. Kate was propped up in bed, and the window of
her room was open. Over the droning of the hymn she caught the sound of
a horse's hoofs on the road. They stopped at a little distance, and then
came 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 slate
one with the ould fir-tree behind the Coort House and by the lane to
Claughbane. Dry as a bone and clane as a gull's wing. You could lie with
your back to the wall and ate off the floor. Taps inside and water as
white as gin. I've been buying the cabin of the 'Mona's Isle' for a
summer-house in the garden. Got a figurehead for the porch too, and
I'll have an anchor for the gate before I'm done. Aw, I'm bound to have
everything nice for her."

There was a short silence, in which nothing was heard but the step of
the horse, and then Philip said in a faltering voice, "But isn't this
being rather in a hurry, Pete?"

"Short coorting's the best coorting, and ours has been long enough
anyway," said Pete. They had drawn up at the porch, and Pete's laugh
came in at the window.

"But think how weak she is," said Philip. "She hasn't even-left her bed
yet, has she?"

"Well, yes, of coorse, sartenly," said Pete, in a steadier voice, "if
the 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 said
quickly, 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, at
all events."

"I'm not a man for skinning the meadow to the sod, no----" said Pete, in
a doleful tone; but Kate heard no more.

She was trembling with a new thought. It was only a shadowy suggestion
as yet, and at first she tried to beat it back. But it came again, it
forced 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 Philip
to marry her! He thought she would never consent to marry Pete--what if
he were given to understand that she had consented. That was the way to
gain the victory over Philip, the way to punish him!

He would not blame her--he would lay the blame at the door of chance, of
fate, of her people. He would think they were forcing this marriage upon
her--the mother out of love of Pete, the father out of love of Pete's
money, and Nancy out of fear of Ross Christian. He would know that she
could not struggle because she could not speak. He would believe she was
yielding against her will, in spite of her love, in the teeth of
their intention. He would think of her as a victim, as a martyr, as a
sacrifice.

It was a deceit--a small deceit; it looked so harmless, too--so
innocent, almost humorous, half ridiculous; and she was a woman, and she
could not put it away. Love, love, love! It would be her excuse and her
forgiveness. She had appealed to Philip himself and in vain. Now she
would 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 would
step out of himself and claim her.

She had craft--all hungry things have craft. She had inklings of
ambition, a certain love of luxury, and desire to be a lady. To
get Philip was to get everything. Love would be satisfied, ambition
fulfilled, 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 in
the world what's come over the man. He's rocking and moaning there like
a 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, Pete
came at Nancy's call.

Kate had few qualms. The wound she had received from Philip had left her
conscienceless towards Pete. Yet she turned her head a little sideways
as 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 to
Ballure 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 sight
on the parson himself one of these days, that's the fact." And, to cover
his 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 a
stammer and her head aside, "Is that so _very_ tiring, Pete?"

Pete leapt from his chair and laughed again like a man demented. "D'ye
say so, Kitty? The word then, darling--the word in my ear--as soft as
soft----"

He was leaning over the bed, but Kate drew away from him, and Nancy
pulled him back, saying, "Get off with you, you goosey gander! What for
should you bother a poor girl to know if sugar's sweet, and if she's
willing to change a sweetheart for a husband?"

It was done. One act--nay, half an act; a word--nay, no word at all, but
only 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--you
needn't tell _me!_"




XIV.

The last hymn was sung, Cæsar came home from chapel, changed back
from his best to his work-day clothes, and then there was talking and
laughing in the kitchen amid the jingling of plates and the vigorous
rattling 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--not
of 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 of
getting married, I clane forgot about the banns."

John the Clerk came in the afternoon, and there was some lusty
disputation.

"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 their
nasty high-bailiffs. I don't know in the world how a dacent woman can
rest 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 John
the Clerk impressively, and there was some clapping of hands, quickly
suppressed by Cæsar, with mutterings of--

"Popery! clane Popery, sir! Can't a person commit matrimony without a
parson bothering a man?"

Then Cæsar squared his elbows across the table and wrote the letter to
Philip. Pete never stood sponsor for anything so pious.

"Respected and Honoured Sir,--I write first to thee that it hath been
borne in on my mind (strong to believe the Lord hath spoken) to marry on
Katherine Cregeen, only beloved daughter of Cæsar Cregeen, a respectable
man and a local preacher, in whose house I tarry, being free to use all
his means of grace. Wedding to-morrow fortnight at Kirk Christ,
Lezayre, eleven o'clock forenoon, and the Lord make it profitable to
my 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 you
haven'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 sweet
as clover with the bumbees humming over it, and as warm as a gorse bush
when the summer's gone."

And then, affection being infectious beyond all maladies known to
mortals, Nancy Joe was heard to say, "I believe in my heart I must be
having 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 it
together with cheerful voices. Then Cæsar prayed appropriately, John the
Clerk improvised responses, and Pete went out and sat on the bottom
step in the lobby and smoked up the stairs, so that Kate in the bedroom
should not feel too lonely.




XV.

Meanwhile Kate, overwhelmed with shame, humiliation, self-reproach,
horror of herself, and dread of everything, lay with cheeks ablaze and
her head buried in the bedclothes. She had no longer any need to pretend
to be sick; she was now sick in reality. Fate had threatened her. She
had 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 those
tall, bashful men who, in their eagerness to be gone, seem always to
have urgent business somewhere else. After a single glance at her and
a few muttered syllables, he went off hurriedly, as if some one were
waiting 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 for
the consequences. The thing has fallen too suddenly. To tell you the
truth--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 for
once. Put it off--put it off!"

"It's not my putting off, doctor. What can you do with a man that's
wanting to be married? You can't bridle a horse with pincers."

But when the doctor was gone, Cæsar said to Grannie, "Cut out the
bridesmaids and the wedding-cakes and the fiddles and the foolery, and
let 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. "First
one objecting this, then another objecting that, as if everybody was
intarmined to stop the thing. It's going on, I'm telling you; d'ye hear
me? There's many a slip--but no matter. What's written with the pen
can'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 by
Philip. It was Philip who was trying to stop the marriage. He would
never 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 Philip
would intervene.

That was Monday, and on Tuesday morning Philip came again. He was very
quiet, but the heart has ears, and Kate heard him. Pete's letter had
reached him, and she could see his white face. After a few words of
commonplace conversation, he drew Pete out of the house. What had he got
to say? Was he thinking that Pete must be stopped at all hazards? Was
he 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. Kate
heard him exchange a few words with her father as they passed through
the 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 telling
you?"

"Bad news, Kate--very bad," said Pete.

There was a fearful silence for a moment. It was like the awful hush
at the instant when the tide turns, and you feel as if something has
happened to the world. Then Kate hardened her face and said, "What is
it?"

"He's ill, and wants to go away in a week. He can't come to the
wedding,'' said Pete.

"Is that all?" said Kate. Her heart leapt for joy. She could not help
it--she laughed. She saw through Philip's excuse. It was only his
subterfuge--he thought Pete would not marry without him.

"Aw, but you never seen the like, though, Kirry," said Pete; "he was
that 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, and
that's as true as gospel. 'The sea's calling me, Pete,' says he, and
then he laughed, but it was the same as if a ghost itself was grinning."

In the selfishness of her enfeebled spirit, Kate still rejoiced. Philip
was suffering. It was another assurance that he would come to her
relief.

"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 arms
and 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 her
limbs. With a shudder she crept down in the bed and hid her face, hating
herself, loathing herself, wishing herself dead.

He stood a moment by her side, crying like a big boy in his great
happiness. "I don't know in the world what she sees in me to be so fond
of 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-way
through he turned about and raised one arm over his head. "God's rest
and God's peace be with you, and may the man that gets you keep a clane
heart and a clane hand, and be fit for the good woman he's won for his
wife."

At the next minute he went tearing down the stairs, and the kitchen rang
with his laughter.




XVI.

Fate scored one. Kate had been telling herself that Philip was tired of
her, that he did not love her any longer, that having taken all he could
take 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 the
tholthan, and bethought herself for the first time of a possible
contingency. Why had she not thought of it before? Why had _he_ never
thought of it? _If_ it should come to pass! The prospect did not appal
her; 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 came
down like an angel's whisper.

She was not afraid. It was only an idea, only a possibility, only a
dream of consequences, but at one bound it brought her so much nearer to
Philip. It gave her a right to him. How dare he make her suffer so? She
would not permit him to leave her. He was her husband, and he must
cling to her, come what would. Across the void that had divided them
a mysterious power drew them together. She was he, and he was she, and
they were one, for--who knows?--who could say?--perhaps Nature herself
had willed it.

Thus the first effect of the new thought upon Kate was frenzied
exultation. She had only one thing to do now. She had only to go
to Philip as Bathsheba went to David. True, she could not say what
Bathsheba said. She had no certainty, but her case was no less strong.
"Have you never thought of what may possibly occur?" This is what she
would say now to Philip. And Philip would say to her, "Dearest, I have
never 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 the
world, in spite of himself--yea, in spite of his own soul if it stood
between them--he would cling to her; she was sure of it--she could swear
to 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 palpitating
heart she would have rejoiced at that moment if she could have been sure
that 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 and
telling him, her head on his breast, whispering sweetly the great
secret--the wondrous news. And then the joy, the rapture, the long kiss
of love! "Mine, mine, mine! he is mine at last!"

That could not be quite so; she was not so happy as Bathsheba; she was
not sure, but her right was the same for all that. Oh, it was joyful, it
was delicious!

The little cunning arts of her sex, the small deceits in which she had
disguised herself fell away from her now. She said to herself, "I will
stop the nonsense about the marriage with Pete." It was mean, it was
foolish, it was miserable trifling, it was wicked, it was a waste
of life--above all, it was doing a great, great wrong to her love of
Philip! How could she ever have thought of it?

Next morning she was up and was dressing when Grannie came into the room
with a cup of tea. "I feel so much better," she said "that I think I'll
go 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 your
tay, then." And Grannie rolled the blind, saying, "A beautiful morning
you'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 and
butter.

"The bells for Christian Killip. Her old sweetheart took her to church
at last. He wouldn't get rest at your father till he did--and her baby
two years for Christmas. But what d'ye think, now? Robbie left her at
the 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 you
can't make me live with her,' he said, and he was away down the road
like the dust."

"I don't think I'll go to Douglas to-day, mother," said Kate in a broken
voice. "I'm not so very well, after all."

"Aw, the bogh!" said Grannie. "Making too sure of herself, was she? It's
the way with them all when they're mending."

With cheerful protestations Grannie helped her back to bed, and then
went off with an anxious face to tell Cæsar that she was more ill than
ever.

She was ill indeed; but her worst illness was of the heart. "If I go to
him and tell him," she thought, "he will marry me--yes. No fear that he
will leave me at the church door or elsewhere. He will stay with me. We
will 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 sacrificed
himself to repair a fault That shall never be--never, never!"

Cæsar came up in great alarm. He seemed to be living in hourly dread
that some obstacle would arise at the last moment to stop the marriage.
"Chut, woman!" he said play-. fully. "Have a good heart, Kitty. The
sun's not going down on you yet at all."

That night there were loud voices from the bar-room. The talk was of the
marriage which had taken place in the morning, and of its strange and
painful sequel. John the Clerk was saying, "But you'd be hearing of the
by-child, it's like?"

"Never a word," said somebody.

"Not heard of it, though? Fetching the child to the wedding to have the
bad name taken off it--no? They were standing the lil bogh---it's only
three--two is it, Grannie, only two?--well, they were standing the lil
thing 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. The
parsons 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 of
a husband out of it anyway."

"No," said Pete--he had not spoken before--"but the child was getting
the name of its father, though."

"That's not mountains of thick porridge, sir," said somebody. "Bobbie's
gone. What's the good of a father if he's doing nothing to bring you
up?"

"Ask your son if you've got any of the sort," said Pete; "some of you
have. Ask me. I know middling well what it is to go through the world
without a father's name to my back. If your lad is like myself, he's
knowing it early and he's knowing it late. He's knowing it when he's
saying his bits of prayers atop of the bed in the gable loft: 'God bless
mother--and grandmother,' maybe--there's never no 'father' in his little
texes. And he's knowing it when he's growing up to a lump of a lad and
going for a trade, and the beast of life is getting the grip of him. Ten
to one he comes to be a waistrel then, and, if it's a girl instead, a
hundred to nothing she turns out a--well, worse. Only a notion, is
it? 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 a
fool."

There was a hush and a hum after that, and Kate, who had reached from
the bed to open the door, clutched it with a feverish grasp.

"But Christian Killip is nothing but a trollop, anyway, sir," said
Cæsar.

"Every cat is black in the night, father--the girl's in trouble," said
Pete. "No, no! If I'd done wrong by a woman, and she was having a child
by me, I'd marry her if she'd take me, though I'd come to hate her like
sin itself."

Grannie in the kitchen was wiping her eyes at these brave words, but
Kate 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 she
hinted at a possible contingency. He, too, was a brave man; he also had
a 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. No
other compulsion should be put upon him, neither the thought of her
possible future position, nor of the consequences to another. It was the
only justice, the only safety, the only happiness now or in the time to
come.

"He shall marry me for _my_ sake," she thought, "for my own sake--my own
sake only."

Thus in the wild disorder of her soul--the tempest of conflicting
passions--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-sick
and ashamed, waiting for Philip, and listening to every step, she kept
her room two days longer. Then Cæsar came and rallied her.

"Gough bless me, but nobody will credit it," he said. "The marriage
for Monday, and the bride in bed a Wednesday. People will say it isn't
coming off at all."

This alarmed her. It partly explained why Philip did not come. If he
thought there was no danger of the marriage, he would be in no hurry to
intervene. Next day (Thursday) she struggled up and dressed in a light
wrapper, feeling weak and nervous, and looking pale and white like
apple-blossom nipped by frost. Pete would have carried her downstairs,
but she would not have it. They established her among a pile of cushions
before a fire in the parlour, with its bowl of sea-birds' eggs that had
the faint, unfamiliar smell--its tables of old china that shook and rang
slightly with every step and sound. The kitchen was covered with the
litter of dressmakers preparing for the wedding. There were bodices
to try on, and decisions to give on points of style. Kate agreed to
everything. In a weak and toneless voice she kept on telling them to do
as they thought hest. Only when she heard that Pete was to pay did she
assert her will, and that was to limit the dresses to one.

"Sakes alive now, Kirry," cried Nancy, "that's what I call ruining a
good 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 were
funny stories of his life abroad, and now and again there came bursts
of laughter from the kitchen, where they were straining their necks to
catch his words through the doors, which they kept ajar. But Kate hardly
listened. She showed signs of impatience sometimes, and made quick
glances around when the door opened, as if expecting somebody. On
recovering herself at these moments, she found Pete looking up at her
with the big, serious, moist eyes of a dog.

He began to tell of the house he had taken, to excuse himself for not
consulting her, and to describe the progress of the furnishing.

"I've put it all in the hands of Cannell & Quayle, Kitty," he said, "and
they're doing it beautiful. Marble slabs, bless you, like a butcher's
counter; carpets as soft as daisies, and looking-glasses as tall as a
man."

Kate had not heard him. She was trying to remember all she knew of the
courts 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 be
here 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's
no choice left,' he says."

Kate's pale face became paler, the dark circles about her eyes grew yet
more dark. "I think I'll go back to bed, mother," she said in the same
toneless voice.

Pete helped her to the foot of the stairs. The big, moist eyes
were looking at her constantly. She found it hard to keep an equal
countenance.

"But will you be fit for it, darling?" said Pete.

"Why, of course she'll be fit, sir," said Cæsar. "What girl is ever more
than middling the week before she's married?"

Next day she persuaded her father to take her to Douglas. She had little
errands there that could not be done in Ramsey. The morning was fine but
cold. Pete helped her up in the gig, and they drove away. If only she
could see Philip, if only Philip could see her, he would know by
the look of her face that the marriage was not of her making--that
compulsion of some sort was being put on her. She spent four hours
going from shop to shop, lingering in the streets, but seeing nothing
of Philip. Her step was slow and weary, her features were pinched and
starved, but Cæsar could scarcely get her out of the town. At length the
daylight 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 the
country.

"Yes, they are a cock's stride shorter in September," said Cæsar; "but
when a woman once gets shopping, Midsummer day itself won't do--she's
wanting 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 and
set her down in the fire-seat. She would have struggled to her feet if
she had been able; she felt something like repulsion at his touch; but
he 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 marriage
customs of old times. One described the "pay-weddings," where the hat
went round, and every guest gave something towards the cost of the
breakfast and the expenses of beginning housekeeping--rude forefather
of the practice of the modern wedding present. Another pictured the
irregular marriages made in public-houses in the days when the island
had three breweries and thirty drinking shops to every thousand of its
inhabitants. The publican laid two sticks crosswise on the floor, and
said to the bride and bridegroom--

"Hop over the sticks and lie crossed on the floor, And you're man and
wife for nevermore."

There was some laughter at this, but Kate sat in the fire-seat and
sipped 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 like
that, and then he went off to Kinsale, and got kept for the herring
riots--d'ye mind them? She was a strapping girl, though, and when the
man 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 for
taking her to the parzon about right But no! Did they think she was for
committing beggamy? She was married to one man, and wasn't that enough
for a dacent girl anyway. And so she wouldn't and she didn't, and last
of all her own boy came back, and they lived together man and wife, and
what for shouldn't they?"

This question from the man who was on the point of going to church was
received with shouts of laughter, through which the voice of Grannie
rose in affectionate remonstrance, saying, "Aw, Pete, it's ter'ble to
hear you, bogh."

"What's there ter'ble about that, Grannie?" said Pete. "Isn't it the
Almighty 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 they
should ever marry. Pete would see that Philip was her husband by every
true law, human and divine. In this mood she lived through much of the
following day, Friday, tossing and turning in bed, for the exhaustion of
the day in Douglas had confined her to her room again.

In the evening she came downstairs, and was established in the fire-seat
as before. There were four or five old women in the kitchen spinning
yarn 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 old
husbands 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 crones
to tell stories of old times.

"Tell us of the days when you were young, Anne," said Pete to an ancient
dame of eighty. Her husband of eighty-four sat sucking his pipe by her
side.

"Well," said old Anne, stretching her arms to the yarn, "I was as near
going foreign, same as yourself, sir, just as near, now, as makes no
matter. It was the very day I married this man, and his brother was
making a start for Austrillya. Jemmy was my ould sweetheart, only I had
given him up because he was always stealing my pocket-handkerchers. But
he 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 quay
with him. But my heart was losing me when I saw the white horses on the
water, 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 and
wider, until the pipe-shank dropped out of his toothless gums on to his
waistcoat. Then he stretched his left arm and brought down his clenched
hand 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 be
appeased, and he shouldered the wheel and hobbled off, saying, "And I
sent 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 no
right to tell it. It was the dead man's sacret too, and she's fouled the
ould man's memory. If a person's done wrong, the best thing he can do
next is to say darned little about it."

Kate rose and went off to bed. Another door had been barred to her, and
she felt sick and faint.




XVIII.

The next day was Saturday. Kate remembered that Philip came to Ballure
on Saturdays. She felt sure that he would come to Sulby also. Let him
only set eyes on her, and he would divine the trouble that had taken the
colour 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 all
day long, like a white-eyed gambler who has staked his last, she waited
and listened and watched. At breakfast she said to herself, "He will
come 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 the
hours with wings of fire. She was now like a criminal looking for a
reprieve. Every time the clock warned to strike, she felt one hour
nearer her doom.

The strain was wearing her out. She reproached Philip for leaving her to
this cruel uncertainty, and she suffered the pangs of one who tries
at the same time to love and to hate. Then she reproached herself with
altering the date of the marriage, and excused Philip on the grounds of
her haste. She felt like a witch who was burning by her own spell. Hope
was failing her, and Will was breaking down as well. Nevertheless, she
determined that the wedding should be postponed.

That was on Saturday night. On Sunday morning she had gone one step
farther. The last pitiful shred of expectation that Philip would
intervene seemed then to be lost, and she had resolved that, come
what would, she should not marry at all. No need to appeal to Pete; no
necessity to betray the secret of Philip. All she had to do was to
say she would not go on with the wedding, and no power on earth should
compel her.

With this determination, and a feeling of immense relief, she went
downstairs. Cæsar was coming in from the preaching-room, and Pete from
the new house at Ramsey. They sat down to dinner. After dinner she would
speak 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 sheep
infects 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 has
got with it."

Kate did not eat her dinner that day, and neither did she speak out as
she had intended. A supernatural power seemed to have come down at the
last moment and barred up the one remaining pathway of escape. She was
in the track of the storm. The tempest was ready to fall on her. Where
could she fly for shelter?

What her father had said of the girl had revealed her life to her in the
light of her relation to Philip. The thought of the possible contingency
which she had foreseen with so much joy, as so much power, had awakened
the consciousness of her moral position. She was a fallen woman! What
else was she? And if the contingency befell, what would become of her?
In the intensity of her father's pietistic views the very shadow of
shame would overwhelm his household, overthrow his sect, and uproot
his religious pretensions. Kate trembled at the possibility of such a
disaster coming through her. She saw herself being driven from house and
home. Where could she fly? And though she fled away, would she not still
be the cause of sorrow and disgrace to all whom she left behind--her
mother, her father, Pete, everybody?

If she could only tear out the past, at least she could stop this
marriage. Or if she had been a man she could stop it, for a man may sin
and still look to the future with a firm face. But she was a woman, and
a 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 was
no escape from it. There was no gleam of hope anywhere.

Late that night--Sunday night--they were sitting together in the
kitchen, Kate in the fire-seat as usual, Pete on the stool by the turf
closet, smoking up the chimney, Cæsar reading aloud, Grannie listening,
and Nancy cooking the supper, when the porch door burst open and
somebody 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 want
with him?"

"Oh, God bless you, sir," said the girl to Pete, "God bless you for ever
and ever."

Then turning back to Grannie, she explained in woman's fashion, with
many words, that somebody unknown had sent her twenty pounds, for the
child, by post, the day before, and she had only now guessed who it must
be 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 his
Amens, anyway."

"I'm axing your pardon, miss," said the girl to Kate, "but I couldn't
help coming--I couldn't really--no, I couldn't," and then she began to
cry.

"Where's that child?" said Pete, heaving up to his feet with a ferocious
look. "What! you mane to say you've left the lil thing alone, asleep? Go
back 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, and
kissed it again and again.

Kate could scarcely breathe, she could barely see. Her pride and her
will had broken down utterly. This greathearted man loved her. He would
lay 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 was
pushing her on. It's blind power was dragging her. If Philip would not
come to claim her she must marry Pete.

And Pete? She meant no harm to Pete. She had not yet thought of things
from Pete's point of view. He was like the camel-bag in the desert to
the terrified wayfarer when the sand-cloud breaks oyer him. He flies to
it. It shelters him. But what of the camel itself, with its head in the
storm? 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 news
of Kate's illness he was overwhelmed with remorse, and when he inquired
if she had been delirious, he was oppressed with a sense of meanness
never felt before. At his meeting with Pete he realised for the first
time to what depths his duplicity had degraded him. He had prided
himself on being a man of honour, and he was suddenly thrown out of the
paths in which he could walk honourably.

When the first shock of Kate's disaster was over, he remembered the
interview with the Governor. The Deemstership burnt in his mind with
a growing fever of desire, but he did not apply for it. He did not
even mention it to Auntie Nan. She heard of his prospects from Peter
Christian Balla-whaine, who first set foot in her house on this errand
of congratulation. The sweet old soul was wildly excited. All the hopes
of her life were about to be realised, the visions and the dreams were
coming true. Philip was going to regain what his father had lost. Had he
made his application yet? No? He would, though; it was his duty.

But Philip could not apply for the Deemstership. To sit down in cold
blood and write to the Home Secretary while Kate was lying sick in bed
would 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 alarm
him. It was only the last revolution of the old wheel that had been set
spinning before Pete went away. Kate would not consent. They had taken
her consent for granted. He felt easy, calm, and secure.

Next came his old master, the college friend of his father, now promoted
to the position of Clerk of the Polls. He was proud of his pupil, and
had 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 set
eyes on him, thinks I, 'Here comes the makings of the best lawyer in the
island,' 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 the
chief 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 some
cases. Young men should be careful what stumbling-blocks they set up in
the way of their own progress.

Philip listened in silence, and was conscious, through all the unselfish
counselling, of a certain cynical bitterness. Still he did not make
application for the Deemstership. Then came Cæsar's letter announcing
the marriage, and even fixing a date for it. This threw him into a fit
of towering indignation. He was certain of undue pressure. They were
forcing the girl. It was his duty to stop the marriage. But how? There
was one clear course, but that course he could not take. He could not go
back on his settled determination that he must not, should not marry the
girl himself. Only one thing was left--to rely on Kate. She would never
consent. Not being able to marry _him_, she would marry no man. She
would do as he was doing--she would suffer and stand alone.

By this time Philip's love, which, in spite of himself, had grown cool
since the Melliah, and in his fierce battle with his worldly aims,
suddenly awakened to fresh violence at the approach of another man. But
his ambition fought with his love, and he began to ask himself if it
made, any difference after all in this matter of Kate whether he took
the Deemstership or left it. Kate was recovering; he had nothing to
reproach himself with, and it would be folly to sacrifice the ambition
of a lifetime to the love of a woman who could never be his, a woman he
could never marry. At that he wrote his letter to the Home Secretary.
It was a brilliant letter of its kind, simple, natural, strong, and
judicious. He had a calm assurance that nothing so good would leave the
island, yet he could not bring himself to post it. Some quiverings of
the old tenderness came back as he held it in his hand, some visions of
Kate, with her twitching lips, her passionate eyes, some whisperings of
their smothered love.

Then came Pete again with the decisive blow. Kate _had_ consented. There
was no longer any room for doubt. His former indignation seemed almost
comic, his confidence absurd. Kate was willing to marry Pete, and after
all, what right had he to blame her? What right had he to stop the
marriage? He had wronged the girl enough already. A good man came and
offered her his love. She was going to take it. How should he dare to
stop her from marrying another, being unable to marry her himself?

That night he posted his letter to the Home Secretary, and calmed the
gnawings of his love with dreams of ambition. He would regain the place
of his father; he would revive the traditions of his grandfather; the
Christians should resume their ancient standing in the Isle of Man; the
last of their race should be a strong man and a just one. No, he would
never marry; he would live alone, a quiet life, a peaceful one, slightly
tinged with melancholy, yet not altogether unhappy, not without cheer.

Under all other emotions, strengthening and supporting him, was a secret
bitterness towards Kate--a certain contempt of her fickleness, her
lightness, her shallow love, her readiness to be off with the old love
and on with the new. There was a sort of pride in his own higher type of
devotion, his sterner passion. Pete invited him to the wedding, but he
would not go, he would invent some excuse.

Then came the change of the day to suit his supposed convenience, and
also 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 the
wedding. 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 the
bridge, plodded over the fields, and finally coiled round the house of
the bride in thickening groans of discord. This restless spirit in the
grey light was meant as herald of the approaching wedding. It came from
the husky lungs of Mr. Jonaique Jelly.

Before daylight "The Manx Fairy" was already astir. Somewhere in the
early reaches of the dawn the house had its last dusting down at the
hands of Nancy Joe. Then Grannie finished, on hearth and griddle, the
baking of her cakes. After that, some of the neighbours came and carried
off to their own fires the beef, mutton, chickens, and ducks intended
for the day's dinner. It was woman's work that was to the fore, and all
idle men were hustled out of the way.

Towards nine o'clock breakfast was swallowed standing. Then everybody
began to think of dressing. In this matter the men had to be finished
off before the women could begin. Already they were heard bellowing for
help from unseen regions upstairs. Grannie took Cæsar in hand. Pete was
in charge of Nancy Joe.

It was found at the last moment that Pete had forgotten to provide
himself with a white shirt. He had nothing to be married in except the
flannel one in which he came home from Africa. This would never do. It
wasn't proper, it wasn't respectable. There was no choice but to borrow
a shirt of Cæsar's. Cæsar's shirt was of ancient pattern, and Pete was
shy of taking it. "Take it, or you'll have none," said Nancy, and she
pushed him back into his room. When he emerged from it he walked with
a stiff neck down the stairs in a collar that reached to his ears at
either 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 to
be watching warily to avoid the stab of their ironed starch. At the
same moment Cæsar appeared in duck trousers, a flowered waistcoat, a
swallow-tail coat, and a tall hat of rough black beaver.

The kitchen was full of men and women by this time, and groups of young
fellows were gathered on the road outside, some with horses, saddled and
bridled for the bride's race home after the ceremony; others with guns
ready loaded for firing as the procession appeared; and others again
with lines of print handkerchiefs, which, as substitutes for flags, they
were hanging from tree to tree.

At every moment the crowd became greater outside, and the company inside
more dense. John the Clerk called on his way to church, and whispered
Pete that everything was ready, and they were going to sing a beautiful
psalm.

"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, and
you'll see me."

"He's only a poor thing," said Mr. Jelly in Pete's ear as John the Clerk
went off. "No more music in the man than my ould sow. Did you hear the
horn this morning, sir? Never got up so early for a wedding before. I'll
be giving you 'the Black and the Grey' going into the church."

Grannie came down in a gigantic bonnet like a half-moon, with her white
cap visible beneath it; and Nancy Joe appeared behind her, be-ribboned
out of all recognition, and taller by many inches for the turret of
feathers 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 at
the 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 a
man 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 going
back to take it off."

Two minutes afterwards he reappeared in his flannel one, under his suit
of 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 ears
that was like the measured ringing of far-off bells. When the daylight
came she slept a troubled sleep, and when she awoke she had a sense of
stupefaction, as if she had taken a drug, and was not yet recovered from
the effects of it. Nancy came bouncing into her room and crying, "It's
your wedding-day, Kitty!" She answered by repeating mechanically, "It's
your wedding day, Kitty."

There was an expression of serenity on her face; she even smiled a
little. A sort of vague gaiety came over her, such as comes to one who
has watched long in agony and suspense by the bed of a sick person and
the person is dead. Nancy drew the little window curtain aside, stooped
down, 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 then
laughing in a faint way. The dress was the new one, and when they had
put it on they stood back from her and shouted with delight. She took up
the little broken hand-glass to look at herself. Her great eyes sparkled
piteously.

The church bells began to ring her wedding-peal. She had to listen hard
to hear it. All sounds seemed to be very far away; everything looked a
long way off. She was living in a sort of dead white dawn of thought and
feeling.

At last they came to say the coach was ready and everything was waiting
for the bride. She repeated their message like a machine, made a slow
gesture, 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 the
church."

She smiled faintly and answered the people's greetings in an indistinct
tone. There was some indulgent whispering at sight of her pale face.
"Pale but genteel," said some one, and then Nancy reached over and drew
the bride's veil down over her face.

At the next minute she was outside the house, standing at the back of
the wagonette. The coachman, with his white rosette, was holding the
door open on one side, and her father was elevating her hand on the
other.

"Am I to go, then?" she asked in a helpless voice.

"Well, what do _you_ think?" said Cæsar. "Shall the man slip off and get
married to himself, think you?"

There was laughter among the people standing round, and she laughed also
and stepped into the coach. Her mother followed her, crinkling in noisy
old 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. The
horses pranced, Nancy screamed, and Grannie started, but Kate gave no
sign. People were closing round the coach-door and shouting altogether
as at a fair. "Good luck to you, boy. Good luck! Good luck!" Pete was
answering 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 moved
away.

They were going slowly down the road. From somewhere in front came
the sound of a clarionet. It was playing "the Black and the Grey."
Immediately behind there was the tramp of people walking with an even
step, and on either side the rustle of an irregular crowd. The morning
was warm and beautiful. Here and there the last of the golden cushag
glistened on the hedges with the first of the autumn gorse. They passed
two 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 leaves
yellowing on the fading grass.

Kate was floating vaguely through these sights and sounds. It was all
like a dream to her--a waking dream in shadow-land. She knew where she
was 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 the
church. Something supernatural would occur.

They drew up sharply, the glass of the windows rattled, and the talk
that had been going on in the carriage ceased. "Here we are," cried
Cæsar; there were voices outside, and then the others inside stepped
down. She saw a hand held out to her and knew whose it was before her
eyes had risen to the face. Philip was there. He was helping her to
alight.

"Am I to get down too?" she asked in a helpless way.

Cæsar said something that made the people laugh again, and then she
smiled like faded sunshine and took the hand of Philip. She held it a
moment 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 and
evergreens, with an inscription in coloured letters: "God bless the
happy pair." The sloping path going down as to a dell was strewn with
gilvers and slips of fuchsia.

At the bottom stood the old church mantled in ivy, like a rock of the
sea covered by green moss.

Leaning on her father's arm she walked in at the porch. The church was
full of people. As they passed under the gallery there was a twittering
as of birds. The Sunday-school girls were up there, looking down and
talking eagerly. Then the coughing and hemming ceased; there was a sort
of deep inspiration; the church seemed to hold its breath for a moment.
After that there were broken exclamations, and the coughing and hemming
began again. "How pale!"--"Not fit, poor thing." Everybody was pitying
her 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 surplice
facing her. Some one came and stood beside her. It was Pete. She did not
look at him, but she felt his warm presence again, and was relieved. It
was like shelter from the eyes around. After a moment she turned about
Philip was one step behind Pete. His head was bent.

Then the service began. The voice of the parson muttered words in a low
voice, but she did not listen. She found herself trying to spell out the
Manx text printed over the chancel arch: "Bannet T'eshyn Ta Cheet ayns
Ennyn y Chearn" ("Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord").

Suddenly the words the parson was speaking leapt into meaning and made
her quiver.

".... is commended of Saint Paul to be honourable among all men, and
therefore 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 back
of 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 be
joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his
peace."

She turned half around. Her eyes fell on Philip. His face was
colourless, almost fierce; his forehead was deathly white. She was sure
that something was about to happen.

Now was the moment for the miracle. It seemed to her as if the whole
congregation were beginning to divine what tie there was between him and
her. She did not care, for he would soon declare it. He was going to do
so now; he had raised his head, he was about to speak.

No, there was no miracle. Philip's eyes fell before her eyes, and his
head went down. He was only digging at the red baize with one of his
feet. She felt tired, so very tired, and oh! so cold. The parson had
gone 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 of
all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment
why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now
confess it."

The parson paused. He had always paused at that point. The pause had no
meaning for him, but for Kate how much! Impediment! There was indeed an
impediment. Confess? How could she ever confess? The warning terrified
her. 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. She
began to tremble violently.

There was an indistinct murmur which she did not catch. The parson
seemed to be speaking to Pete--

"--love her, comfort her, honour and keep her... so long as ye both
shall live."

And then came Pete's voice, full and strong from his great chest, but
far 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 after
God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him and
serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and
forsaking 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'eshyn
Ta Cheet," but the letters were dancing in and out of each other, and
yellow lights were darting from her eyes. Suddenly she was aware that
the parson's voice had stopped. There was blank silence, then an uneasy
rustle, 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 the
parson. The next thing she knew was that a stray hand was holding her
hand. She felt more safe now that her poor cold fingers lay in that big
warm palm.

It was Pete, and he was speaking again. She did not so much hear him as
feel 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 a
wave 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! try
to speak after me. Take your time."

Then, aloud, "'I, Katherine Cregeen.'"

Her throat gurgled; she faltered, but she spoke at length in the
toneless 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 in
the church, and much audible breathing. Some of the school-girls in the
gallery 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 my
worldly goods I thee endow, Amen."

Again she left her cold hand in Pete's warm hand. He was stroking it on
the outside with his other one.

It was all a dream. She seemed to rally from it as she moved down the
aisle. 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 the
psalm, with John the Clerk's husky voice drawling out the first word
of each new verse as his companions were singing the last word of the
preceding 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. Her
mother was wiping her eyes, Pete was laughing, and Nancy Joe was
nudging him and saying in an audible whisper, "Kiss her, man--it's only
respectable."

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. When
she laid it down, the parson returned his spectacles to their sheath,
and a nervous voice, which thrilled and frightened her, said from
behind, "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 said
something else--something about a new life and a new beginning--but she
could not gather its meaning, her mind would not take it in. At the next
moment they were all in the open air.




XXII.

Philip had been in torment--first the torment of an irresistible hatred
of Kate. He knew that this hatred was illogical, that it was monstrous;
but it supported his pride, it held him safe above self-contempt in
being present at the wedding. When the carriage drew up at the church
gate, and he helped Kate to alight, he thought she looked up at him as
one who says, "You see, things are not so bad after all!" And when she
turned her face to him at the beginning of the service, he thought
it wore a look of fierce triumph, of victory, of disdain. But as the
ceremony proceeded and he observed her absent-ness, her vacancy, her
pathetic imbecility, he began to be oppressed by an awful sense of her
consciousness of error. Was she taking this step out of pique? Was she
thinking 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 that
is possible to any woman--that of being married to one man and loving
another?

Faugh! Would his own vanity haunt him even there? Shame, shame! He
forced himself to do the duty of a best man. In the vestry he approached
the bride and muttered the conventional wishes. His heart was devouring
itself like a rapid fire, and it was as much as he could do to look
into her piteous eyes and speak. Struggle as he might at that moment, he
could not put out of his heart a passionate tenderness. This frightened
him, and straightway he resolved to see no more of Kate. He must be fair
to her, he must be true to himself. But walking behind her up the path
strewn with flowers from the church door to the gate, the gnawings of
the worm of buried love came on him again, and he felt like a man who
was being dragged through the dirt.




XXIII.

Four saddle-horses, each with its rider seated and ready, had been
waiting at the churchyard gate, pawing up the gravel. The instant the
bride and bridegroom came out of the church the horses set off for
Cæsar's house at a furious gallop. Kate and Pete, Cæsar, Grannie, and
Nancy, with the addition of Philip and Parson Quiggin, returned in the
covered carriage.

At the turn of the road the way was blocked by a group of stalwart girls
out of the last of the year's cornfields. With the straw rope of the
stackyard stretched across, they demanded toll before the carriage would
be allowed to pass. Pete, who sat by the door, put his head out and
inquired solemnly if the highway women would take their charge in silver
or in kind--half-a-crown apiece or a kiss all round. They laughed, and
answered that they saw no objection to taking both. Whereupon Pete,
whispering behind his hand that the mistress was looking, tossed into
the air a paper bag, which rose like a cannon-ball, broke in the air
like a shell, and fell over their white sun-bonnets like a shower.

At the door of "The Manx Fairy" the four riders were waiting with
smoking horses. The first to arrive had been rewarded already with a
bottle of rum. He had one other ancient privilege. As the coach drove up
to the door, he stepped up to the bride with the wedding-cake and broke
it over her head. Then there was a scramble for the pieces among the
girls who gathered round her, that they might take them to bed and dream
of 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 the
mill, 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, a
lady of consequence, receiving much consideration, at his reverent right
hand. Jonaique Jelly sat midway down the table, with a fine scorn on
his features, for John the Clerk sat opposite with a fiddle gripped
between his knees.

The neighbours brought in the joints of beef and mutton, the chickens
and the ducks. Cæsar and the parson carved. Black Tom, who had been
invited by way of truce, served out the liquor from an eighteen-gallon
cask, and sucked it up himself like the sole of an old shoe. Then Cæsar
said 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 are
you doing, John?"--"Haven't done as well for a month, sir; but what's
it saying, two hungry meals make the third a glutton."--"How are _you_
doing, Tom?"--"No time to get a right mouthful for myself Cæsar; kept
so busy with the drink."--"Aw, there'll be some with their top works
hampered soon."--"Got plenty, Jonaique?"--"Plenty, sir, plenty. Enough
down here to victual a menagerie. It'll be Sunday every day of the week
with the man that's getting the lavings."--"Take a taste of this
beef before it goes, Mr. Thomas Quilliam, or do you prefer the
mutton?"--"I'm not partic'lar, Mr. Cregeen. Ateing's nothing to me
but filling a sack that's empty."

Grannie praised the wedding service--it was lovely--it was
beautiful--she didn't think the ould parzon could have made the like;
but Cæsar criticised both church and clergy--couldn't see what for the
cross on the pulpit and the petticoat on the parson. "Popery, sir, clane
Popery," he whispered across Grannie to Philip.

Away went the shanks of mutton, the breasts of birds, and the slabs of
beef, and up came an apple-pudding as round as a well-fed salmon, and as
long as a twenty-pound cod. There was a shout of welcome. "None of your
dynamite 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 colour
had returned to her cheeks since she had come home. She was talking a
little, and even laughing sometimes, as if the weight on her heart
was lightening every moment. She rose at the call, took, with the hand
nearest to the dish, the knife that her father held out, and plunged
it into the pudding. As she did so, with all eyes upon her, the
wedding-ring on her finger flashed in the light and was seen by
everybody.

"Look at that, though," cried Black Tom. "There's the wife for a
husband, if you plaze. Ashamed of showing it, is she? Not she, the
bogh."

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 that
way 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 was
quiet.

"Yes, though," said Pete. "It was up at Johannesburg. Two chums settled
there, and one married a girl. Nice lil thing, too; some of the Boer
girls, you know; but not much ballast at her at all. The husband went
up country for the Consolidated Co., and when he came back there was
trouble. 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. 'I
can't,' says the husband. 'Forgive him this once,' says the wife. 'It's
only once a woman loses herself,' says the man. 'Mercy, mercy!' 'Say
your prayers.' 'Mercy, mercy, mercy!' 'Too late!' and the husband shot
him dead. The woman dropped in a faint, but the man said, 'He didn't say
his prayers, though--I must be doing it for him.' Then down he went on
his knees by the body, but the prayers were all forgot at him--all but
the bit of a grace, so he said that instead."

Loud breathings on every side followed Pete's story, and Cæsar, leaning
over towards Philip, whose face had grown ashy, said, "Terrible, sir,
terrible! But still and for all, right enough, though, eh! What's it
saying, Better an enemy than a bad friend."

Philip answered absently; his eyes were on the opposite side of the
table. There was a sudden rising of the people about Kate.

"Water, there," shouted Pete. "It's a thundering blockhead I am for
sure--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's
wedding-day. Take a lil sup, though, woman--there, there!"

Kate drank the water, with the glass jingling against her teeth, and
then began to laugh. The parson's ruddy face rose at the end of the
table. "Friends," he said, "after that tragic story, let us indulge in
a little vanity. Fill up your glasses to the brim, and drink with me to
the health of the happy couple. We all know both of them. We know the
bride for a good daughter and a sweet girl--one so naturally pure that
nobody can ever say an evil word or think an evil thought when she is
near. We know the bridegroom for a real Manxman, simple and rugged and
true, who says all he thinks and thinks all he says. God has been
very good to them. Such virginal and transparent souls have much to be
thankful for. It is not for them to struggle with that worst enemy of
man, the enemy that is within, the enemy of bad passions. So we can wish
them joy on their union with a full heart and a sure hope that, whatever
chance befall them on the ways of this world, they will be happy and
content."

"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 head
was down.

"And now, friends," continued the parson, "Captain Quilliam has been a
successful man abroad, but he has had to come home to do the best piece
of work he ever did." (A voice--"Do it yourself, parzon.") "It is true
I've never done it myself. Vanity of vanities, love is not for me. It's
been the Lord's will to put me here to do the marrying and leave my
people to do the loving. But there is a young man present who has all
the world before him and everything this life can promise except one
thing, and that's the best thing of all--a wife." (Kate's laughter grew
boisterous.) "This morning he helped his friend to marry a pure and
beautiful maiden. Now let me remind him of the text which says, 'Go thou
and 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 other
thunderings of applause, Cap'n Pete rolled up to reply. After a moment's
pause, in which he distributed sage winks and nods on every side, he
said: "I'm not much for public spaking myself. I made my best speech and
my shortest in church this morning--_I will_. The parzon has has been
telling my _dooiney molla_ to do as I have done today. He can't. Begging
pardon 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, twenty
clay pipes lost their heads by collision with the table, and Pete was
interrupted by roars of laughter.

"Gough bless me, can't a married man mention his wife in company? Well
then. Mistress Cap'n Peter Quilliam----"

This mouthful was the signal for another riotous interruption, and a
general call for more to drink.

"Won't that do for you neither? I'm not going back on it, though. 'Whom
God hath joined together let no man put asunder'--isn't that it, Parzon
Quiggin? What's it you're saying--no man but the Dempster? Well, the
Dempster's here that is to be--I'll clear him of _that_, anyway."

Kate's laughter became explosive and uncontrollable. Pete nodded
sideways to fill up the gap in his eloquence, and then went on. "But if
my _dooiney molla_ can't marry my wife, there's one thing he can do for
her--he can make her house his home in Ramsey when he goes to Douglas
for good and comes down here to the coorts once a fortnight."

Kate laughed more immoderately than ever; but Philip, with a look of
alarm, half rose from his seat, and said across the table, "There's my
aunt 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 of
cheers, through which Kate's shrill laughter rang like a scream. Pete
patted the back of her hand, and continued, "And now, young fellows
there, let an ould experienced married man give you a bit of advice--he
swore away all his worldly goods this morning, so he hasn't much else to
give. I've no belief in bachelors myself. They're like a tub without a
handle--nothing to lay hould of them by." (Much nudging and whispering
about 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 about
women. We're living on the nineteenth century, boys, and it's middling
hard feeding for some of us. If the fishing's going to the dogs and the
farming going to the deuce, don't be tossing head over tip at the tail
of the tourist. If you've got the pumping engine inside of you, in plain
English, if you've got the indomable character of the rael Manxman, do
as I done--go foreign. Then watch your opportunity. What's Shake-spar
saying?" Pete paused. "What's that he's saying, now?" Pete scratched his
forehead. "Something about a flood, anyway." Pete stretched his hand out
vigorously. "'Lay hould of it at the flood,' says he, 'that's the way to
make your fortune.'"

Then Pete melted to sentiment, glanced down at Kate's head, and
continued, "And when you come back to the ould island--and there isn't
no 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 and
herrings three times a day, as on nothing for dinner, and the same every
night of the week for supper. While you're away, you'll be draming of
her. 'Is she faithful?' 'Is she thrue?' Coorse she is, and waiting to
take you the very minute you come home." Kate was still laughing as if
she could not stop. "Look out for the right sort, boys. Plenty of the
like in yet. If the young men of these days are more smart and more
educated than their fathers, the young women are more handsome and more
virtuous than their mothers. So _ben-my-chree_, my hearties, and enough
in the locker to drive away the divil and the coroner."

Through the volley of cheers which followed Pete's speech came the
voice of Black Tom, thick with drink, "Drive off the crow at the
wedding-breakfast."

Everybody rose and looked. A great crow, black as night, had come in
at the open door of the mill, calmly, sedately, as if by habit, for the
corn 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 eager
an audience. Then Pete said, "Whose houlding with such ould wife's
wonders?"

And Cæsar answered, "Coorse not, or fairies either. I've slept out all
night on Cronk-ny-airy-Lhaa--before my days of grace, I mane--and I
never 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 take
the bride and bridegroom home. They had sung "Mylecharane," and "Keerie
fu Snaighty," and "Hunting the Wren," and "The Win' that Shook the
Barley," and then they had cleared away the tables and danced to the
fiddle of John the Clerk and the clarionet of Jonaique Jelly. Kate, with
wild eyes and flushed cheeks, had taken part in everything, but always
fiercely, violently, almost tempestuously, until people lost enjoyment
of her heartiness in fear of her hysteria, and Cæsar whispered Pete to
take her away, and brought round the gig to hasten them.

Kate went up for her cloak and hat, and in the interval between her
departure and reappearance, Grannie and Nancy Joe, both glorified
beings, Nancy with her unaccustomed cap askew, stood in the middle of a
group 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 all
stood 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 great
arms.

"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 the
reins, cracked the whip, and they drove away.




XXIV.

Philip had stood at the door of the porch, struggling to command his
soul, and employing all his powers to look cheerful and even gay. But as
Kate had passed she had looked at him with an imploring look, and then
he had seemed to understand everything--that she had made a mistake and
that she knew it, that her laughter had been bitterer than tears, that
some compulsion had been put upon her, and that she was a wretched and
miserable woman. At the next moment she had gone by with an odour
of lace and perfume; and then a flood of tenderness, of pity, of mad
jealousy had come upon him, and it had been as much as he could do to
restrain himself. One instant he held himself in hand, and at the next
the wheels of the gig had begun to move, the horse had started, the
women had trooped into the house again, and there was nothing before him
but the broad back of Cæsar, who was looking into the darkness after the
vanishing gig-lamps, and breathing asthmatical breath.

"Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother and shall cleave
unto his wife," said Cæsar. "You're time enough yet, sir; come in, come
in."

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 away
unobserved.

Too late! From the torment of his own thoughts he could not escape--his
lost love, his lost happiness, his memories of the past, his dreams of
the future. A voice--it was his own voice--seemed to be taunting him
constantly: "You were not worthy of her. You did not know her value. She
is 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 all
the 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 his
calculating deliberations was dragging him again in the dust. Thus, with
a sense of crushing shame, he plunged down the dark road, trying not to
think of the gig that had gone swinging along in front of him.

He would leave the island. To-morrow he would sail for England. No
matter if he lost the chance of promotion. To-morrow, to-morrow! But
to-night? How could he live through the hours until morning, with the
black thoughts which the darkness generated? How could he sleep? How lie
awake? 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 was
gone. She had been lost to herself the whole day-through, and now she
possessed herself again. She grew quiet and silent, and even solemn. But
Pete rattled on with cheerful talk about the day's doings. At the doors
of the houses on the road as they passed, people were standing in the
half-light to wave them salutations, and Pete sent back his answers in
shouts and laughter. Turning the bridge they saw a little group at the
porch of the "Ginger."

"There's company waiting for us yonder," said Pete, giving the mare a
touch 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 dacent
to disappoint people at all. We'll hawl up for a minute just, and hoof
up 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, "Joy
to you, Capt'n, and joy to your lady, and long life and prosperity to
you both, and may the Lord give you children and health and happiness to
rear them, and may you see your children's children, and may they call
you blessed."

"Glasses round. Mrs. Kelly," shouted Pete.

"Go on, please," said Kate in a fretful whisper, and she tugged at
Pete's sleeve.

The stars came out; the moon gave a peep; the late hay of the Curragh
sent a sweet odour through the night. Kate shuddered and Pete covered
her shoulders with a rug. Then he began to sing snatches. He sang bits
of all the songs that had been sung that night, but kept coming back at
intervals 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, and
Kate sat by his side and trembled.

They came to the town, rattled down the Parliament Street, passed the
Court-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's
cap 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 the
hind-quarters of the horse, which were steaming in the light of the
lamps. Pete lifted her down as he had lifted her up. Then Mrs. Gorry
took 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 up
to the porch. The porch opened on a square hall, furnished as a
sitting-room. A fire was burning, a lamp was lit, the table was laid for
supper, and the place was warm and cosy.

"_There!_ What d'ye say to _that_?" cried Pete, coming behind with the
whip 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 the
whip-handle round the room like a showman.

Kate could bear no more. She sank into a chair and burst into a fit of
tears. Pete's glowing face dropped in an instant.

"Dear heart alive, da