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.