"Again?"

"Well, I am," said Pete, looking ashamed. "Yes, truth enough, that's what I'm thinking of doing. You see," with a persuasive air, "when a man's bitten by travel it's like the hydrophobia ezactly, he can't rest no time in one bed at all. Must be running here and running there--and running reg'lar. It's the way with me, anyway. Used to think the ould island would be big enough for the rest of my days. But, no! I'm longing shocking for the mines again, and the compound, and the n.i.g.g.e.rs, and the wild life out yonder. 'The sea's calling me,' you know." And then he laughed.

Philip understood him--Pete meant to take himself out of the way. "Shall you stay long?" he faltered.

"Well, yes, I was thinking so," said Pete. "You see, the stuff isn't panning out now same as it used to, and fortunes aren't made as fast as they were in my time. Not that I'm wanting a fortune, neither--is it likely now? But, still and for all--well, I'll be away a good spell, anyway."

Philip tried to ask if he intended to go soon.

"To-morrow, sir, by the packet to Liverpool, for the sailing on Wednesday. I've been going the rounds saying 'goodbye' to the ould chums--Jonaique, and John the Widow, and Niplightly, and Kelly the postman. Not much heart at some of them; just a bit of a something stowed away in their giblets; but it isn't right to be expecting too much at all. This is the only one that doesn't seem willing to part with me."

Pete's dog had followed him into the room, and was sitting soberly by the side of his chair. "There's no shaking him off, poor ould chap."

The dog got up and wagged his stump.

"Well, we've tramped the world together, haven't we, Dempster? He doesn't seem tired of me yet neither." Pete's face lengthened. "But there's Grannie, now. The ould angel is going about like a bit of a thunder-cloud, and doesn't know in the world whether to burst on me or not. Thinks I've been cruel, seemingly. I can't be explaining to her neither. Maybe you'll set it right for me when I'm gone, sir. It's you for a job like that, you know. Don't want her to be thinking hard of me, poor ould thing."

Pete whistled at the child, and halloed to it, and then, in a lower tone, he continued, "Not been to Castletown, sir. Got as far as Ballasalla, and saw the castle tower. Then my heart was losing me, and I turned back. You'll say good-bye for me, Phil Tell her I forgave--no, not that, though. Say I left her my love--that won't do neither.

_You'll_ know best what to say when the time comes, Phil, so I lave it with you. Maybe you'll tell her I went away cheerful and content, and, well, happy--why not? No harm in saying that at all. Not breaking my heart, anyway, for when a man's a man--H'm!" clearing his throat, "I'm bad dreadful these days wanting a smook in the mornings. May I smook here? I may? You're good, too."

He cut his tobacco with his discoloured knife, rolled it, charged his pipe, and lit it.

"Sorry to be going away just before your own great day, Phil. I'll get the skipper to fire a round as we're steaming by Castletown, and if there's a band aboord I'll tip them a trifle to play 'Myle Charaine.'

That'll spake to you like the blackbird's whistle, as the saying is.

Looks like deserting you, though. But, chut! it would be no surprise to me at all. I've seen it coming these years and years. 'You'll be the first Manxman living,' says I the day I sailed before. You've not deceaved me neither. D'ye remember the morning on the quay, and the oath between the pair of us? Me swearing you same as a high bailiff--nothing and n.o.body to come between us--d'ye mind it, Phil? And nothing has, and nothing shall."

He puffed at his pipe, and said significantly, "You'll be getting married soon. Aw, you will, I know you will, I'm sarten sure you will."

Philip could not look into his face. He felt little and mean.

"You're a wise man, sir, and a great man, but if a plain common chap may give you a bit of advice--aw, but you'll be losing no time, though, I'll not be here myself to see it. I'll be on the water, maybe, with the waves washing agen the gun'ale, and the wind rattling in the rigging, and the ship burrowing into the darkness of the sea. But I'll be knowing it's morning at home, and the sun shining, and a sort of a warm quietness everywhere, and you and her at the ould church together."

The pipe was puffing audibly.

"Tell her I lave her my blessing. Tell her--but the way I'm smooking, it's shocking. Your curtains will be smelling thick twist for a century."

Philip's moist eyes were following the child along the floor.

"What about the little one?" he asked with difficulty.

"Ah I tell you the truth, Phil, that's the for I came. Well, mostly, anyway. You see, a child isn't fit for a compound ezactly. Not but they're thinking diamonds of a lil thing out there, specially if it's a girl. But still and for all, with n.i.g.g.e.rs about and chaps as rough as a thornbush and no manners to spake of----"

Philip interrupted eagerly--"Will you leave her with Grannie!"

"Well, no, that wasn't what I was thinking. Grannie's a bit ould getting and she's had her whack. Wanting ais.e.m.e.nt in her ould days, anyway.

Then she'll be knocking under before the lil one's up--that's only to be expected. No, I was thinking--what d'ye think I was thinking now?"

"What?" said Philip with quick-coming breath. He did not raise his head.

"I was thinking--well, yes, I was, then--it's a fact, though--I was thinking maybe yourself, now----"

"Pete!"

Philip had started up and grasped Pete by the hand, but he could say no more, he felt crushed by Pete's magnanimity. And Pete went on as if he were asking a great favour. "'She's been your heart's blood to you, Pete,' thinks I to my-. self, 'and there isn't n.o.body but himself you could trust her with--n.o.body else you would give her up to. He'll love her,'. thinks I; 'he'll cherish her; he'll rear her as if she was his own; he'll be same thing as a father itself to her'----"

Philip was struggling to keep up.

"I've been laving something for her too," said Pete.

"No, no!"

"Yes, though, one of the first Manx estates going. Caesar had the deeds, but I've been taking them to the High Bailiff, and doing everything regular. When I'm gone, sir----"

Philip tried to protest.

"Aw, but a man can lave what he likes to his own, sir, can't he?"

Philip was silent. He could say nothing. The make-believe was to be kept up to the last tragic moment.

"And out yonder, lying on my hunk in the sheds--good mattresses and thick blankets, Phil, nothing to complain of at all--I'll be watching her growing up, year by year, same as if she was under my eye constant.

'She's in pinafores now' thinks I. 'Now she's in long frocks, and is doing up her hair.' 'She's as straight as an osier now, and red as a rose, and the best looking girl in the island, and the spitting picture of what her mother used to be.' Aw, I'll be seeing her in my mind's eye, sir, plainer nor any potegraph."

Pete puffed furiously at his pipe. "And the mother, I'll be seeing herself, too. A woman every inch of her, G.o.d bless her. Wherever there's a poor girl lying in her shame she'll be there, I'll go bail on that.

And yourself--I'll be seeing yourself, sir, whiter, maybe, and the sun going down on you, but strong for all. And when any poor fellow has had a knock-down blow, and the world is darkening round him, he'll be coming to you for light and for strength, and you'll be houlding out the right hand to him, because you're knowing yourself what it is to fall and get up again, and because you're a man, and Grod has made friends with you."

Pete rammed his thumb into his pipe, and stuffed it, still smoking, into his waistcoat pocket. "Chut!" he said huskily. "The talk a man'll be putting out when he's going away foreign! All for poethry then, or something of that s.p.a.cious. H'm! h'm!" clearing his throat, "must be giving up the pipe, though. Not much worth for the voice at all."

Philip could not speak. The strength and grandeur of the man overwhelmed him. It cut him to the heart that Pete could never see, could never hear, how he would wash away his shame.

The child had crawled across the room to an open cabinet that stood in one corner, and there possessed herself of a sh.e.l.l, which she was making show of holding to her ear.

"Well, did you ever?" cried Pete. "Look at that child now. She's knowing it's a sh.e.l.l. 'Deed she is, though. Aw, crawling reg'lar, sir, morning to night. Would you like to see the prettiest sight in the world, Phil?"

He went down on his knees and held out his arms. "Come here, you lil sandpiper. Fix that chair a piece nearer, sir--that's the ticket. Good thing Nancy isn't here. She'd be on to us like the mischief. Wonderful handy with babies, though, and if anybody was wanting a nurse now--a stepmother's breath is cold--but Nancy! My gough, you daren't look over the hedge at her lammie but she's shouting fit for an earth wake. Stand nice, now, Kitty, stand nice, bogh! The woman's about right, too--the lil one's legs are like bits of qualebone. 'Come, now, bogh, come?"

Pete put the child to stand with its back to the chair, and then leaned towards it with his arms outspread. The child staggered a step in the sea of one yard's s.p.a.ce that lay between, looked back at the irrecoverable chair, looked down on the distant ground, and then plunged forward with a nervous laugh, and fell into Pete's arms.

"Bravo! Wasn't that nice, Phil? Ever see anything prettier than a child's first step? Again, Kitty, bogh! But go to your _new_ father this time. Aisy, now, aisy!" (in a thick voice). "Grive me a kiss first!"

(with a choking gurgle). "One more, darling!" (with a broken laugh).

"Now face the _other_ way. One--two--are you ready, Phil?"

Phil held out his long white trembling hands.

"Yes," with a smothered sob.

"Three--four--and away!"

The child's fingers slipped into Philip's palm; there was another halt, another plunge, another nervous laugh, and then the child was in Philip's arms, his head was over it, and he was clasping it to his heart.

After a moment, Philip, without raising his eyes, said, "Pete!"