"I've not much to tell," said Pete--"only a story of backsliding.

Before I earned enough to carry me up country, I worked a month at Cape Town with the boats. My master was a pious old Dutchman getting the name of Jan. One Sat.u.r.day night a big ship lost her anchor outside, and on Sunday morning forty pounds was offered for finding it. All the boatmen went out except Jan. 'Six days shalt thou labour,' says he, 'but the seventh is the Sabbath.'"

Pete's address was here punctuated by loud cries of thanksgiving.

"All day long he was seeing the boats beating up the bay, so, to keep out of temptation, he was going up to the bedroom and pulling the blind and getting down on his knees and wrastling like mad. And something out of heaven was saying to him, 'It's the Lord's day, Jannie; they'll not get a ha'p'orth.' Neither did they; but when Jan's watch said twelve o'clock midnight the pair of us were going off like rockets. Well, we hadn't been ten minutes on the water before our grapplings had hould of that anchor."

There were loud cries of "Glory!"

"Jan was shouting, 'The Lord has put us atop of it as straight as the lid of a taypot!'"

Great cries of "Hallelujah!"

"But when we came ash.o.r.e we found Jan's watch was twenty minutes fast, and that was the end of the ould man's religion."

That day the word went round that both Pete and Kate had been converted.

Their names were entered in Cla.s.s, and they received their quarterly tickets.

X.

Next morning Kate set out to church for her churching. Her household duties had lost their interest by this time, and she left Nancy to cook the dinner. Pete had volunteered to take charge of the child. This he began to do by establishing himself with his pipe in an armchair by the cradle, and looking steadfastly down into it until the little one awoke.

Then he rocked it, rummaged his memory for a nursery song to quiet it, and smoked and sang together.

"A frog he would a-wooing go, _Kitty alone, Kitty alone_, (Puff, puff.) A wonderful likely sort of a beau, _Kitty alone and I!_"

(_Puff, puff, puff_.)

The sun was shining in at the doorway, and a man's shadow fell across the cradle-head. It was Philip. Pete put his mouth out into the form of an unspoken "Hush," and Philip sat down in silence, while Pete went on with his smoke and his song.

"But when her husband rat came home, _Kitty alone, Kitty alone_, Pray who's been here since I've been gone?

_Kitty alone and I!_" _(Puff, Puff)_

Pete had got to the middle of the verse about "the worthy gentleman,"

when the low whine in the cradle lengthened to a long breath and stopped.

"Gone off at last, G.o.d bless it," said Pete. "And how's yourself, Philip? And how goes the pet.i.tion?"

With his head on his hand, Philip was gazing absently into the fire, and he did not hear.

"How goes the pet.i.tion?" said Pete.

"It was that I came to speak of," said Philip. "Sorry to say it has had no effect but a bad one. It has only drawn attention to the fact that Manx fishermen pay no harbour dues."

"And right too," said Pete. "The harbours are our fathers' harbours, and were freed to us forty years ago."

"Nevertheless," said Philip, "the dues are to be demanded. The Governor has issued an order."

"Then we'll rise against it--every fisherman in the island," said Pete.

"And when they're making you Dempster, you'll back us up in the Tynwald Coort."

"Take care, Pete, take care," said Philip.

Then Kate came in from church, and Pete welcomed her with a shout.

Philip rose and bowed in silence. The marks of the prayers of the week were on her face, but they had brought her no comfort. She had been constantly promising herself consolation from religion, but every fresh exercise of devotion had seemed to tear open the wound from which she bled to death.

She removed her cloak and stepped to the cradle. The child was sleeping peacefully, but she convinced herself that it must be unwell. Her own hands were cold and moist, and when she touched the child she thought its skin was clammy. Presently her hands became hot and dry, and when she touched the child again she thought its forehead was feverish.

"I'm sure she's ill," she said.

"Chut! love," said Pete; "no more ill than I am."

But, to calm her fears, he went off for the doctor. The doctor was away in the country, and was not likely to be back for hours. Kate's fears increased. Every time she looked at the child she applied to it the symptoms of her own condition.

"My child is dying--I'm sure it is," she cried.

"Nonsense, darling," said Pete. "Only an hour ago it was looking up as imperent as a tomt.i.t."

At last a new terror seized her, and she cried, "My child is dying unbaptized."

"Well, we'll soon mend that, love," said Pete. "I'll be going off for the parson." And he caught up his hat and went out.

He called on Parson Quiggin, who promised to follow immediately. Then he went on to Sulby to fetch Caesar and Grannie and some others, having no fear for the child's life, but some hope of banishing Kate's melancholy by the merriment of a christening feast.

Meanwhile, Philip and Kate were alone with the little one, save in the intervals of Nancy's coming and going between the hall and the kitchen.

She was restless, and full of expectation, starting at every sound and every step. He could see that she had gone whole nights without sleep, and was pa.s.sing through an existence that was burning itself away.

Do what he would to explain her sufferings as the common results of childbirth, he could not help resolving them in the old flattering solution. She was paying the penalty of having married the wrong man.

And she was to blame. Whatever the compulsion put upon her, she ought to have withstood it. There was no situation in life from which it was not possible to escape. Had _he_ not found a way out of a situation essentially the same? Thus a certain high pride in his own conduct took possession of him even in the presence of Kate's pain.

But his tenderness fought with his self-righteousness. He looked at her piteous face and his strength almost ebbed away. She looked up into his eyes and affectionate pity almost overwhelmed him. Once or twice she seemed about to say something, but she did not speak, and he said little. Yet it wanted all his resolution not to take her in his arms and comfort her, not to mingle his tears with hers, not to tell her of six months spent in vain in the effort to wipe her out of his heart, not to whisper of cheerless days and of nights made desolate with the repet.i.tion of her name. But no, he would be stronger than that. It was not yet too late to walk the path of honour. He would stand no longer between husband and wife.

Pete came back, bringing Grannie and Caesar. The parson arrived soon after them. Kate was sitting with the child in her lap, and brooding over it like a bird above its nest. The child was still sleeping the sleep of health and innocence, but the mother's eyes were wild.

"Bogh, bogh!" said Grannie, and she kissed her daughter. Kate made no response. Nancy Joe grew red about the eyelids and began to blow her nose.

"Here's the prazon, darling," whispered Pete, and Kate rose to her feet.

The company rose with her, and stood in a half-circle before the fire.

It was now between daylight and dark, and the firelight flashed in their faces.

"Are the G.o.dfather and G.o.dmothers present?" the parson asked.

"Mr. Christian will stand G.o.dfather, parzon; and Nancy and Grannie will be G.o.dmothers."

Nancy took the child out of Kate's arms, and the service for private baptism began with the tremendous words, "Dearly beloved, forasmuch as all men are conceived and born in si----"

The parson stopped. Kate had staggered and almost fallen. Pete put his arm around her to keep her up, and then the service went on.